


Becoming

by SouthSideStory



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Antisemitism, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Biphobia, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes-centric, Bullying, Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Child Abuse, Depression, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Self-Harm, Stucky - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags May Change, Torture, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7540519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthSideStory/pseuds/SouthSideStory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The serum straightened Steve’s crooked back, healed his weak lungs, and brought new color to his vision, and sometimes Bucky wonders what else it could do. Maybe the secret of Steve’s desire for Bucky was imprinted on his genetic code, and like every other imperfection stamped there, Erskine’s formula wiped it out. It would explain why Steve no longer looks at him with quiet longing, and Bucky almost hopes that the experimentations of a mad scientist are to blame. Because the alternative is too painful to consider, that Steve simply stopped wanting Bucky of his own accord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. BUCKY: 1.1

# BUCKY

# Act 1

.

.

## 1.1

#### "They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered."

#### \- F. Scott Fitzgerald -

∞

#####  **June to August 1930**

 

 

Bucky discovers three important things the day he runs away from home. First: South Brooklyn, despite its name, is actually situated on the western side of the borough. Second: Red Hook may be a shitty neighborhood, but it’s the only place in all of New York where you can get a decent view of the Statue of Liberty’s big, green face. Third: the stubbornest cuss in all of America lives on Lorraine Street, and his name is Steve Rogers.

 

* * *

 

His ma would faint if she saw the part of town Bucky had wandered into, and Dad wouldn’t hesitate to belt him for it. That alone is enough to make him regret running off, and he’s right on the verge of turning around and starting the long trek back to his family’s brownstone when he hears a cry of pain, almost drowned out by rough laughter.

There’s a space between McPherson’s Grocery and a pawn shop, a narrow alley that smells of rotten potatoes and piss, and Bucky sees a little kid on the ground, getting the shit kicked out of him by two older boys. Somehow he gets up on his feet, raising his fists, and Christ, Bucky’s never seen anything to beat it. This kid is puny, and his bullies have already given him a busted mouth and black eye, but he holds himself without fear.

This isn’t any of his business, and jumping into a fight to protect a boy he doesn’t even know is just plain stupid, but Bucky doesn’t care. He yanks the bigger of the bullies (a freckled, ginger-haired brute) off the kid, punches him right in the nose, and smiles when he hears bone crack beneath his fist. The boy clutches at his face, wailing and crying as blood dribbles between his fingers. He shouts obscenities in an Irish accent so thick that his vulgar curses might as well be in Chinese for all that Bucky understands him.

It’s satisfying, sweet even, and for a moment, Bucky feels _strong_. Like breaking some mick’s nose was just what he needed.

“Get out of here,” Bucky says, and the red-haired boy scrambles away, taking his friend with him.

The kid wipes his bloody mouth with the back of his hand, then looks up at Bucky with eyes too old for the rest of him. “Thanks,” he says, and his gratitude sounds genuine, if a little grudging. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Bucky isn’t usually the type to stick up for strangers, but for some reason seeing this boy in trouble made him want to do the right thing. “Whatever,” he says, and he holds out his hand. “I’m Bucky.”

“Steve.” They shake hands, and he’s surprised at the strength of his grip. It’s nothing too impressive, really, but more than he was expecting from such a shrimp.

“I’ll walk you home,” Bucky says. “In case those idiots get the idea to come back for more.”

“That’s nice and all, but I don’t need a chaperone,” Steve stays. He’s smiling, soft and friendly. Still, there’s some tension to it, like he’s trying to be nice through well-hidden irritation.  

Bucky laughs. “Jeez, what kind of kid your age says ‘chaperone’?”

“I’m not a baby!” Steve shouts, and that gentle smile is gone, dropped like a cheap act. “I’ll be twelve next month.”

He snorts, because if this kid is eleven then he’ll eat his hat—but Steve blushes so red, clearly angry and embarrassed, that Bucky can’t help but believe him. “Okay, no need to get your panties in a twist. Let’s get you home, all right?”

Steve says at least once every block that he’s perfectly fine on his own, but he’s too polite to outright tell Bucky to get lost.

“So, uh, what’s wrong with you?” Bucky asks.

“Just about everything. You name it, I got it,” Steve says, and he shrugs, casual, like it doesn’t much matter to him.

“Oh.” Bucky steals a glance at Steve, and he notices that, besides being beanpole skinny and sickly pale, his back is kind of crooked, and he’s wheezing a bit just from walking fast in the summer heat. Normally Bucky would feel bad for any sonofabitch unlucky enough to be so scrawny and a little crippled, but something about Steve makes it impossible to pity him.

 

* * *

 

The Rogers’ whole apartment could fit in his family’s living room, the furniture is old and dilapidated, the linoleum peeling off whatever flooring hides underneath it. Though tidy and neat, the place smells vaguely musty, and even with the windows thrown open it’s hotter than hell. Hand-drawn pictures are tacked onto the walls—the New York skyline, a dog panting as he sits on the cracked sidewalk, Mrs. Rogers laughing. They’re detailed enough that Bucky finds himself staring, admiring how the rough lines still manage to make such clear images.

“That’s really good,” Bucky says, pointing at a sketch of some fancy old church.

A little smile pulls at the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Thanks.”

Mrs. Rogers asks Bucky to stay for dinner, but he waves off her invitation. “Nah, I should really be getting back home before my ma starts worrying.”

Definitely too late for that, he figures, but it’s a fair enough excuse just the same.

“Well, you’re welcome here anytime, Bucky,” Mrs. Rogers says.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

It’s a long walk from Red Hook back to Prospect Heights. By the time he reaches his family’s brownstone, the sun is bleeding red into the horizon, Bucky’s feet are killing him, and the anxiety he’s been putting off all day has twisted his stomach into knots. He slips inside as quietly as he can, then tiptoes toward the staircase—

“Somebody’s in trouble,” Rebecca says in a sing-song voice.

His sister leans against the banister, smirking. She’s Dad’s favorite, always has been, and she sees less of his hand than Bucky, Deborah, and Abigail (even though Abbie is only five). Maybe because she’s the most obedient, or because she looks the least like Ma, Rebecca doesn’t have to walk on eggshells the same way the rest of them do.

Sometimes Bucky is noble enough to appreciate that his eleven-year-old sister doesn’t get beat as often as he does, but usually—like right now—he just resents her for it.

“Shut up,” Bucky whispers, “before somebody hears you.”

“Hmm, let me think about that.” Rebecca looks up, like she’s actually considering it. “Nope.”

He’s ready to bargain or beg for her silence, but before Bucky can think of what to say, Rebecca takes a deep breath and shouts, “Daddy! James is home!”

“I fucking hate you, you snitching little shit,” Bucky hisses, and he lunges for Rebecca. She tries to get away, but he catches her by the ends of her long, mousy hair, and yanks it hard enough to make her squeal in pain—

“Let go of your sister right now.” Dad’s voice sounds even and calm, but that doesn’t fool Bucky. His father is bright and gregarious when he’s in a good mood, but his anger is always such a cold thing.

Bucky releases Rebecca, who glares at him with glassy brown eyes, sticks out her tongue, and darts away upstairs.

_I hope you die_ , he thinks, even though he knows this isn’t Rebecca’s fault, not really. Dad would never have let him get away with running off and staying gone all day.

When Dad unbuckles his belt, Ma whispers, “George, maybe we should—”

“Be quiet,” he says, and Bucky hopes she listens, because it’ll only go badly for the both of them if Ma speaks out further.

His father at least has the consideration to take him into his own room for the whipping, so Ma and his sisters can’t witness it. The worst part isn’t the stinging bite of the leather against his skin, or the promise of blue bruises, or even the familiar taste of his own tears. No, the worst part is how Dad asks those cool questions: _Are you sorry for what you did, James? Will you do it again? Will you listen better next time?_ How he hits harder when Bucky holds his silence, promising to keep this up all night if he refuses to answer. So he breaks, like he always does, and sobs _I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, I’ll be better next time, I swear!_ Until the anger he feels for Dad and Rebecca pales next to his self-disgust, because what kind of boy cries like a little girl over a few licks with a belt?

That night, Bucky sleeps on his stomach, trying to ignore the ladder of welts burning down his backside. He hates himself for groveling, for being as weak as Dad says he is, and he swears that someday he’ll be stronger.

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s back, bottom, and legs sting like fire throughout the service, but all evidence of his beating is hidden beneath his Sunday best. He vaguely hears Pastor Peterson’s booming voice telling the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. He knows now what _sodomite_ means, because Dad told him what the queers in the bad parts of Brooklyn would do to him if he keeps sneaking out. That threat was frightening and gross, but not scary enough to cow him completely.

Bucky pretends to listen to the pastor, but he can’t stop fidgeting, restless and bored. Church is worse than school, because at least he learns _real_ stuff at school, not fairy tales dressed up as truth. A boat that can hold every kind of animal on earth? Jonah surviving three days in the belly of a whale? Jesus dying and coming back to life like some kind of divine zombie? Sure.

He’ll believe in miracles the day he sees one.

 

* * *

 

For some reason, he can’t stop thinking about Steve, the skinny boy with big blue eyes who’s too brave for his own good. Bucky’s bruises have turned a sickly yellow-green by the time he works up the courage to wander back to Red Hook. It starts raining when he’s still a few blocks away from the Rogers’ ugly apartment building, and by the time he knocks on the door of number 413, Bucky is soaked.

Steve answers, frowning. “Bucky?”

“Can I come in?”

Steve looks wary, but he invites him inside just the same. Bucky sits on the threadbare couch, shivering and wet, and grins at Steve as widely as he can manage. “Your ma did say I was welcome anytime.”

“She sure did.” Steve smirks, grabs a towel, dumps it on Bucky’s head, and says, “Are you trying to catch pneumonia or something?”

“I’ll be fine,” Bucky says, since he never gets sick. He doesn’t admit this, though, because it seems mean to rub that in Steve’s face. “So what are you doing today?”

Steve grabs his sketchbook and sits next to Bucky. “Just drawing. Nothing special.”

Bucky dries his face and neck, rubs the towel over his damp hair, then nudges Steve with his elbow. “I don’t know about that. Your art looks special to me. I’ve never seen anybody draw like you do.”

A rosy flush colors Steve’s cheeks, and he scratches the back of his neck. “You must not’ve seen many good artists.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You don’t know how to take a compliment real well, do you?”

Steve smiles, so shyly and sweetly that it’s difficult to reconcile with the stubborn bastard Bucky knows he can be. “Sorry, I guess I’m just not used—” He cuts himself off, then asks, “Why are you being so nice to me anyway?”

Bucky throws an arm around Steve’s narrow shoulders. “Because I like you. Isn’t that a good enough reason?”

He cajoles Steve into drawing him, and even though Bucky has a hard time staying still long enough to pose, he enjoys the undivided attention. How Steve’s gaze flits between his sketchpad and Bucky’s face, dark eyebrows drawn together, full bottom lip caught between his teeth as he concentrates.

He’s pretty, Bucky thinks, almost like a girl. So small-boned and fragile, with long-lashed eyes and a plump, pink mouth. But despite his stature, there’s something incredibly boyish about Steve too, a maturing masculinity that shines through his polite demeanor and delicate appearance.

This time he makes it back to Prospect Heights before anybody can truly miss him. He reads “Sleeping Beauty” to Abbie, plays dolls with Deborah, and hides Rebecca’s favorite stuffed animal in the attic. It’s a fluffy white rabbit that Dad won for her at a carnival game three years ago, and even though Rebecca pretends to be too old for Snowshoe, she still keeps the damn thing in a place of pride on her windowsill.

It’s a good day, but when night falls, sleep won’t come. Bucky tries lying every which way, counting sheep, and clearing his mind, but none of it works. He keeps thinking about the way Steve looked as he drew him, the intensity of his expression, so focused on capturing every fine detail. For nearly an hour he was the center of Steve Rogers’ world, and he loved every moment of it.

 

* * *

 

Bucky is careful to visit Steve only when Dad is at work, and even then he limits his visits to a few hours so that he doesn’t catch Rebecca’s attention. She’d tell on him in an instant, the snitch, if she thought it would get her points with their father. (To be fair, Bucky would rat on her just as quick if it would win him any favor from Dad.)

When Steve says he’s turning twelve on Independence Day, Bucky cracks up laughing and says, “You’re full of shit.”

“Am not!” Steve says. “It really is my birthday, I swear.”

“Swear on what? Your mother’s life?” he asks, challenging.

Steve punches his arm with more force than Bucky would have expected. “I’m not swearing _anything_ on my ma’s life, no matter how true it is.”

“Then just swear to God,” Bucky says. It’s a game he plays, trying to get Steve to say something sacrilegious.

Steve gives him an unimpressed look. “Quit trying to make me blaspheme. It’s not gonna work.”

Bucky might go to First Baptist Church every Sunday like clockwork, but it’s obligation that drives him into the Good Lord’s house, not faith. Steve, on the other hand, never misses Mass, simply because he finds peace there. Belief in something higher and greater than himself comes naturally to him, and Bucky envies this almost as much as it confuses him.

Today, they sit on the fire escape, drinking cold Cokes that Bucky purchased, legs dangling between the railing bars as they watch the people milling along the street below.

“You can’t keep buying stuff for me,” Steve says, turning his barely-sipped soda in his hands. “It’s not fair.”

“So what?” Bucky asks, and he takes a long swig of his own Coke, so sweet and fizzy. It tastes of summer, like fireworks and carnivals and picnics in the park. “Friendship is about being there for somebody, about giving each other what you need. Fairness hasn’t got much to do with it.”

“Maybe,” Steve says, “but I still don’t like you paying for my things all the time.”

Bucky pops him on the back of his hard head. “It’s a goddamn Coke. Get over yourself.”

Steve scowls when he takes the Lord’s name in vain. “You’re gonna get struck by lightning if you keep that up.”

“Oh, I’m so scared,” Bucky says flatly. “As if God’s got time to be throwing lightning bolts at blasphemers. He’s a little busy with wars and starving kids and polio to worry about the likes of me.”

Steve laughs. “God knows everything and he’s everywhere always, so he can worry about blasphemers _and_ polio at the same time. Don’t they teach you anything at a Baptist church?”

Bucky finishes off his soda, then drops the bottle to the ground. The glass shatters as soon as it hits the pavement, and he smiles, happier to have caused some small destruction. “They teach me plenty. It’s not Pastor Peterson’s fault that I don’t listen. Anyway, at least our services are in a living language that actually people speak.”  

This turns into an argument about the purpose of baptizing newborn babies, whether or not original sin is just placing blame or explaining human nature, and the benefits of weekly versus quarterly communion.

“C’mon,” Bucky says. “You can’t really believe that wafers and wine are _literally_ the body and blood of Christ?”

Steve shrugs. “Is it any more ridiculous than believing a guy performed miracles, gave up his life to save the world, and rose from the dead?”

“I guess not,” Bucky admits, “but I think it’s all bullshit anyway. No offense, but I really don’t get how you buy this stuff.”

Steve pulls his legs up against his chest, frowning. “I don’t know. Maybe I just want to believe there’s something after all this, so that I won’t be scared stupid when I die.”

“You’re not gonna die,” Bucky says. “I mean, of course you will someday, because everybody does. But look at you now, you’re fine!”

“You’ve only ever known me in the summer, Buck. Last winter I was laid up with double pneumonia for weeks. It got so bad that Ma called in Father McCauley to give me last rites.” Steve smiles weakly, but he won’t look Bucky in the eye. “That’s the second time that’s happened, so I guess that whenever I do die, God should be good and ready for me.”

Bucky feels a shock of fear so startling that it takes his breath away. Steve’s been a part of his life for such a short time, but he already can’t imagine living without him. He hugs his friend harder than he means to, and they fall to the metal fire escape floor all tangled up together, laughing and breathless.

“You’re not gonna die,” Bucky says again, but even he can hear that it’s desperation behind his words now, not confidence.

 

* * *

 

Bucky takes Steve to Coney Island for his twelfth birthday—which, God above, really _is_ the Fourth of July, and it’s too funny that Steve (who’s so patriotic) was born on Independence Day. He buys fresh hot dogs and fluffy cotton candy for both of them, and then he makes Steve ride the Cyclone. It doesn’t take much prodding, because he’s the bravest boy Bucky’s ever met, and if the kid is intimidated by anything he’s yet to find it. But all the courage in the world isn’t enough to keep Steve from puking up his guts in the nearest garbage can. Afterward, he wipes his sticky mouth with his shirt sleeve, glares at Bucky, and promises to get back at him for this someday.

They spend the rest of July exploring Brooklyn together, blowing Bucky’s allowance on candy, cold soda, and theater tickets. He helps Steve out of more than one scrape, and he picks up bruises from strangers to go along with bruises from his father, but he’s lucky to avoid any noticeable injuries that would attract his parents’ notice. By August, he’s certain that meeting Steve was the best thing that ever happened to him, and he’s more than a little in awe of his friend.

That high esteem doesn’t seem to go both ways, though. Except when he loses his temper, Steve is unfailingly nice, but he still holds Bucky at arm’s length. It takes a whole summer of doggedly visiting Red Hook before he realizes why Steve is so suspicious of his friendship; it’s because no one besides Mrs. Rogers has given him reason to believe that he’s worth caring about. This is so ridiculous, so _wrong_ , that it makes Bucky want to throttle every bully who’s made Steve feel less-than over the years. Sure, he can be mulish and kinda self-righteous, but Steve is also brave and clever, kind and good. He’s different, special, and Bucky doesn’t understand how the whole world doesn’t see it.

The Sunday before school starts back, Bucky risks his father’s ire and sneaks out to catch a movie with Steve. They don’t make it to the theater, though, because Steve stops at the mouth of an alley, wearing the expression that means he’s about to drag Bucky into trouble. A few neighborhood bullies are beating on a skinny, curly-haired kid, calling him a kike and worse, saying he better give up the money they know he’s got. One of the bullies is Seamus Rourke, the ginger-haired boy whose nose Bucky broke on his first day in Red Hook. Seamus already hates him, and if he has it in for Jews, that’s just one more reason to stay out of this fight. Bucky tugs at Steve’s sleeve, more nervous than he wants to let on, and hisses, “Come on. Let’s go.”

“I can’t, Buck. I understand if you don’t want to help, but—”

“Oh shut up. Like I’m gonna leave you here alone.” Bucky swallows, makes himself smile at Steve, and shouts, “Hey, Seamus! Don’t you have anything better to do than beat up kids half your size? Or are you just so poor that you’ll stoop to stealing from little boys?”

Seamus stops punching the Jew, and he’s grinning in a mean, ugly way when he turns to Bucky. “What would you know about it, rich boy?”

Bucky shrugs. “I know you’re as stupid as you are ugly, and that’s really saying something.”

“Keep walking, you two.” Seamus puffs himself up and crosses his arms over his chest, like a gangster from the movies, and it looks so ridiculous that Bucky almost snorts. “Unless you want some of what this kike’s getting.”

“Just leave him alone,” Steve says, “and we can all go on our own way.”

Seamus laughs, and the other boys laugh with him. “What d’you plan to do about it, Rogers? Sneeze on us?”

Bucky strides over, Steve right beside him, and pushes Seamus in the chest. “You gonna make me break that ugly Irish nose of yours twice?”

Seamus punches him in the eye, and Bucky almost loses his footing. He’s never been hit in the face before—his father is much too smart to leave bruises where other people can see—and he blinks against the blinding pain. Anger overcomes shock and hurt when one of Seamus’ buddies hits Steve in the breadbasket, and he goes for that one instead. Slams the thickset, blonde boy against a shop wall and starts punching him everywhere he can reach: face, belly, ribs, kidneys. He falls to the ground and tries to curl in on himself, but Bucky kicks him in the gut once, twice, again, so angry he can barely breathe for it.

“Bucky! He’s down, stop kicking him!” Steve shouts, and he turns, startled and ashamed to be caught losing his temper so badly, in time to see Seamus push his friend into the trash cans. The Jew is handling the third bully, throwing decent punches despite his size, so Bucky ignores him and goes for Seamus.

It’s ugly and brutal and over fast. Seamus gets a few good licks in, but he makes the mistake of going for body blows. Bucky’s too used to punches to his belly from a grown man for that to slow him down much, and he fights through the pain like he doesn’t even feel it. Grabs Seamus by his wiry red hair and bashes his face against the brick wall as hard as he can. The kid shouts, clutching at his bloody brow, cussing Bucky in English and Gaelic. “Goddamn Jew-lover,” he spits.

“Yeah, yeah. Go home and fuck one of your twelve sisters,” Bucky says. “Or bend over for your priest; I hear they like that. Whatever gets you out of my face.”

“This isn’t over, Barnes.” Seamus gives him the kind of hard look that promises retribution, but he and his buddies hurry off just the same.

Bucky turns to Steve, grabs his hand, and helps him up. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine,” Steve says, but he’s looking at Bucky oddly, like he doesn’t quite recognize him.

“Thanks for helping me.” The Jew smiles, wipes his bloody nose, and says, “I’m Danny, by the way.”

“Sure,” Bucky says coolly. “Well me and Steve were headed to a movie, and we ought to get going if we want to catch it.”

Danny’s smile falls. “Okay.”

Bucky keeps quiet for three blocks, but of course Steve can’t take a hint, and he asks, “Why were you like that with Danny?”

“Like what?” Bucky asks.

Steve sticks his bruised hands in his pockets. “I don’t know. Kinda mean, I guess.”

Bucky scoffs. “Why should I be nice to a stranger? If he could take better care of himself I wouldn’t have a shiner right now. You realize I’m gonna be in deep shit with my dad, right? All because some Jew couldn’t hold his own.” He kicks an empty beer bottle down the sidewalk and tries not to think about how his father is going to react when he goes home.

Steve grabs him by the arm, frowning. “Are you serious? You’re mad at Danny ‘cause he got set on by three bullies? Or because he’s a Jew?”

Bucky can’t help it; he laughs. “Yeah, that’s it,” he says. “You’re right on the money, Steve. I just hate those uppity Jews. Can hardly stand any of them—not even my own ma.”

He wants to take it back as soon as he says it, because this is a secret that Bucky’s been drilled to keep all his life. Like the bruises Dad gives him, this is the kind of truth that belongs behind closed doors. Not a thing to be shared, not even with Steve.

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses. “Forget I said that, all right?”

Steve’s bright eyes widen. “But I thought you said your ma goes to church with you on Sundays. Don’t Jewish people have a temple or something?”

“Do I look like I know where Jews go?” Bucky shouts. “You see me wearing a kippah or hear me speaking Yiddish?”

“No,” Steve says, raising his hands. “But I wouldn’t think any differently of you if you did, Buck. So you don’t have to get so upset, okay?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.” Bucky runs his hands through his hair, takes a deep breath. “I’ve just—I’ve never told anybody this before. We’re not supposed to talk about it. Dad doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“Things probably would be a lot harder for you and your sisters if people knew,” Steve says quietly, but Bucky can tell he doesn’t understand. It’s not in his nature to lie, to pretend to be something he’s not.

But then again, the things that might shame Steve the most are visible for everyone to see. His weaknesses are impossible to hide, and he doesn’t have the privilege of escaping from them the way Bucky does.

 

* * *

 

He misses the first day of the new school year because he’s too bruised to get out of bed. Dad had demanded to know where he’d been, who he was with, and how he’d gotten a shiner. For the first time in his life, Bucky kept silent through his beating. He didn’t say one word, because he knows that if his father finds out that Steve dragged him into a fight he’ll never see his friend again.

Abbie and Deborah kiss his cheeks before they head off to school, and even Rebecca ruffles his hair fondly. She whispers, “I hope you feel better soon, Bucky,” and leaves him in Ma’s care. Like Dad, Rebecca nearly always calls him James, and he doesn’t miss it when she uses his nickname instead. He thinks that might be something like an apology from his sister, even though she didn’t do anything to get him in trouble this time.

Ma reads to him to distract him from the aches all over his body. He pretends to be too old for fairy tales, but they’re his favorite stories, and he’s not fooling his mother.

“Which one do you want to hear next, _boychick_?”

He smiles into his pillow, because it’s rare for Ma to speak any Yiddish. Bucky doesn’t even know what _boychick_ means, but she murmurs it with such soft affection that he’s sure it’s something good.

“Sleeping Beauty,” he says. “Please.”

Bucky soon dozes, lulled by the sweet sound of his mother’s voice. When he wakes it’s only to catch the moral at the end of the story:

“… _Who could wait a hundred years,_

_Free from fretting, free from fears._

_Now, our story seems to show_

_That a century or so,_

_Late or early, matters not;_

_True love comes by fairy-lot._

_Some old folk will even say_

_It grows better by delay…_ ”

“That’s dumb,” Bucky says, too tired and fuzzy-headed with pain to hold his tongue. “Who wants to wait a hundred years to fall in love?”

Ma brushes his hair away from his face and clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Sometimes the right person is worth waiting for.”

Stupidly, Bucky thinks of Steve. It’s like he was sleepwalking for the thirteen years before he met his friend, going through the motions without any purpose, and he didn’t even know it until Steve woke him up.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and reminds himself that “Sleeping Beauty” is a _love_ story. Steve probably wouldn’t appreciate being thought of as the prince to Bucky’s princess.

“Was Dad?” he asks. “Worth waiting for, I mean?”

“I wish you could have known him before the war, Bucky. He was different. More like…” Ma smiles, but she looks so sad that he almost doesn’t recognize the expression for what it is. “More like you, actually.”

“I don’t believe that,” Bucky says, harder than he means to. “I’m nothing like him.”

This isn’t true, though. Not really. Bucky looks just like his mother—has the same blue-grey eyes and dark hair and beautiful features as she does—but it’s Dad he takes after in other ways. They’re both outgoing and charming, friendly to the people they like, vicious to the ones they hate, and violent when they can get away with it. Their biggest difference is that his father’s fury is so reserved, colder than winter, while Bucky’s burns red-hot.  

“Sometimes war makes monsters out of good men. That’s no excuse for what he does to us, and I know that, Bucky, I do. I wish I was better, stronger. The kind of woman who could leave.” Tears slide down her cheeks now, but his mother’s voice remains steady when she says, “We can’t always help who we love, _boychick_.”


	2. BUCKY: 1.2

## 1.2

#### "Your perspective on life comes from the cage you were held captive in."

#### \- Shannon L. Adler -

∞

#####  **October 1930 to February 1931**

 

 

“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”

Steve laughs, but his smile turns into a wince and he grabs his side. “Wow, thanks. You’re some friend.”

“Your ribs aren’t broken, are they?” Bucky asks, suddenly more afraid than angry.

“No, just bruised pretty bad,” Steve says. He lies back on the couch gingerly, settling down with the too-careful economy of motion that comes when you’re black and blue all over.

Bucky knows that routine too well not to sympathize, but he shakes his head and asks, “What was it this time? Did you save a little old lady from getting mugged? Rescue some kittens?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Steve says, and now he sounds annoyed. “Bullies don’t need a reason to make me a punching bag.”

“Fair enough.” Bucky sits on the arm of the couch and ruffles Steve’s hair. “Sorry for bitching. I worry, you know? You’re always so busy looking out for everybody else. Who’s gonna look out for you?”

Without really thinking about it, his touch goes from playful tousling to something gentler, and he marvels at how soft Steve’s hair is, fine as silk between his fingers. When they first met, the summer sun had bleached it blonde, but now that autumn has set in his hair looks darker, almost brown.

“ _You_ look out for me,” Steve says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

Bucky’s chest tightens, like there’s something heavy sitting on his heart. “Oh really?”

He strokes Steve’s scalp softly, how his ma sometimes does for him when he’s sick or hurt, because it’s the most honest way he knows to say, _I’m here, and I’ll take care of you_ , without voicing the words. Steve leans into his touch and makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, a simple little sound of contentment that gives Bucky gooseflesh.

“So, you ever gonna introduce me to your family?” Steve asks, nonchalant. “Or even tell them about me?”

Bucky frowns, and his hand freezes, stilling in the middle of a caress. “You don’t want to meet them. Dad’s kind of an ass, and my sister Rebecca is the biggest pain on earth.”

Steve snickers. “She can’t be that bad. And don’t stop whatever you’re doing; it feels good.”

He starts running his fingers through Steve’s hair again, cheeks hot. “You haven’t met her. I’d think Rebecca might actually be Satan if she didn’t like church so much.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Steve says, and although his tone is light, Bucky can hear the tension in his voice. “Or, yanno, I would if you told any of your family that I exist.”

Bucky thumps Steve on his unbruised temple, stands up, and starts pacing. “It’s not that simple. My father, he’s—well, he’s not the most understanding, okay?”

Steve sits up, slowly and carefully. “So what’re you worried about? That he won’t like me ‘cause I’m Catholic, or Irish, or poor?”

“All of that. He’s nice enough usually, but he can be real mean sometimes.” Bucky gets on one knee in front of the couch, so that he’s face to face with Steve, and puts his hand on the nape of his neck. “I don’t want him being mean to you,” he whispers.

“That’s good of you. It really is,” Steve says, and he’s giving Bucky the soft little half-smile that he saves for important moments. “But if you keep hiding me from your family, your dad’s gonna find out eventually, and when he does he’ll be sure to hate me then. So I say we take our chances before it comes to that. What do you think?”

Bucky sighs. He can tell he’s not going to win this argument; he rarely ever does with Steve. “Fine. But be on your best behavior, all right? Don’t smart-mouth anybody, even when they say something stupid.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I know how to be nice, Buck. I’m not a total moron.”

He grins, grips Steve’s hair in a playful fist (mostly to give him a rough time, but also because he wants to feel its softness between his fingers again). “Sure, pal,” he says. “I’ll believe that when I’ve seen some evidence.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky has never asked to have a friend over for dinner before. He’s always been nervous to bring anybody home, but it’s easier than he expects. His ma promises to set an extra place at the table on Saturday night, and Dad says nothing at all.

Steve arrives at six o’clock exactly, and Bucky rushes to answer the door. “Hey. Did you have any trouble finding us?”

Steve smirks. “Four-story brownstones are kinda hard to miss.”

“Smartass,” Bucky says, but there’s no heat behind it. “Come on in.”

Dinner goes so smoothly that he starts to question why he worried about this so much. Steve compliments Ma’s beef roast and eats it with more gusto than Bucky’s ever seen him eat anything. He charms Abbie and Deborah within five minutes, simply by being himself, and even Rebecca is almost nice. Despite her double-edged compliments about how “well cared for” his clothes are and how “quaint” an apartment in Red Hook must be, Steve remains polite and kind, as if he’s oblivious to the thinly-veiled insults, and Rebecca backs off.

It’s his father that he’s most worried about, but Dad seems to be in a charming mood tonight. He isn’t rude or unkind, not even in the sly way like Rebecca. Still, when Deborah asks Steve where he goes to church, Bucky holds his breath.

“Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. It’s that big old church at the corner of Richards and Verona,” Steve says.

“So you’re Catholic?” Dad asks. His voice stays light, but he glances at Bucky with a subtle sharpness that makes his stomach sink.

Steve smiles pleasantly. “Yes, sir.”

Dad nods. “And do you go to church often?”

“Every Sunday, unless I’m too sick,” Steve says. “I’ve always liked going. It’s… comforting, I guess.”

“Well, perhaps a little of your devotion will rub off on James. Heaven knows he needs it.” Dad chuckles in a way that takes the edge off of his words. “It’s all Winifred and I can do to get him out of bed on Sunday mornings.”

“I bet,” Steve says, laughing.

As relieved as he is to see Dad being friendly to Steve, it makes Bucky feel sick that his father and his best friend are laughing together over him— _at_ him, really.

Later, long after Steve has left, Bucky lies awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and he realizes what it is that hurts so much about this. Part of him had hoped that Steve would take one look at his dad and see what Bucky sees: a cruel man, petty and vengeful, mean under a kindly mask. He didn’t, though, and that’s more disappointing than it should be.

 

* * *

 

Bucky has always enjoyed school. He excels academically, with a particular flair for foreign languages and science—although if he sets aside false modesty, he knows that he’s never found any variety of classwork difficult. Teachers appreciate his intellect, coaches praise his athleticism, and he’s popular enough with other students. All in all, school is a place where he’s successful and well-liked, much simpler and more peaceful than home.

But he finds himself hating the new school year, bored by lessons that don’t challenge him, confined within the stuffy walls that feel more restricting every day, and mildly annoyed by his classmates. There’s nothing _wrong_ with the likes of Greg Blackwell and Hal Thompson, but they aren’t Steve, and Bucky realizes around the middle of November that this alone has made him resent their company.

“I wish we went to the same school,” Bucky says.

It’s three days before Thanksgiving, and he and Steve are doing their homework together on his bedroom floor. Well, Bucky finished his own homework half an hour ago, so now he’s reading _A Princess of Mars_ and bugging Steve while he struggles to finish his book report.

“Me too,” Steve says. “I bet your school didn’t have to lay off half its teachers.”

Most of the public schools in Brooklyn have lost a lot of funding since last October, and with the money went the teachers. Bucky goes to a private school, though, and it was hit less heavily by the stock market crash.

“True, but that’s not really what I was getting at.” Bucky shoves Steve’s shoulder playfully.

Steve sighs, then erases the line of lead that traced its way across his paper, thanks to Bucky’s roughhousing. “Stop it. You’re messing up my handwriting.”

Bucky snorts. “Like I could make it worse. I don’t know how in the hell your teachers read that chicken scratch anyway.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my writing,” Steve says, but Bucky can tell that the mild offense in his voice is all put on for show. An invitation for more ribbing, if anything.

“Sure. Except for how it’s not legible and any word more than eight letters long is misspelled.” Bucky points to the middle of the report and says, “‘Loneliness’ doesn’t have a ‘y’ in it.”

Steve cuts his eyes at Bucky, annoyed, but he erases the word and fixes it. “You’re a real know-it-all.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the know-it-all who’s gonna make sure you pass seventh grade,” Bucky promises. He rests his head on Steve’s shoulder, breathes in the clean, soothing scent of his threadbare shirt, and suppresses a shiver.

“Good luck with that,” Steve says. “I already missed half this month, sick with that cold, and now I’m totally lost in math. Mr. Franklin yells at me every day for being such a damn dunce.”

“Hey, you listen to me,” Bucky says. He wraps his arm around Steve and keeps his voice strong and serious, so it’s clear that he means what he says. “You’re smart as a whip, and if your teacher can’t see that, then maybe he’s the idiot.”

Steve stops writing, his narrow shoulders growing stiff and tense under Bucky’s arm. “You’re just saying that,” he mutters.

“Would I lie to you?”

Steve shrugs, and when he speaks, he sounds determined but miserably apologetic. “I dunno, Buck. You—well, you kind of lie to everybody else.”

Maybe it should sting, being called a liar so blatantly, but Bucky can’t be offended by something that’s true. He’s dishonest with his parents, his sisters, his teachers, his classmates. Usually to keep out of trouble, but sometimes to get what he wants, and occasionally he lies for the hell of it, just because he can.

“You’re not everybody else, you mook.” Bucky gives Steve a little shake, too gentle to hurt, but firm enough that it’s obvious he means business. “I wouldn’t ever lie to you. You’re my best friend.”

_My Steve_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say, because even at thirteen Bucky is wise enough to know how strange that sounds.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, either,” Steve whispers, and now he’s leaning into Bucky, burying his face against his neck.

Something about this closeness seems both incredibly right and deeply wrong, in the same way that saying _My Steve_ would have been, if he’d voiced it. Bucky can feel warm breath tickling his throat, can smell the cheap dimestore shampoo on Steve’s hair, and he doesn’t know whether to stay still or pull away. He wants to remain right here, like this, forever, because having Steve burrowed against him excites and comforts Bucky in equal measure. But if anybody should open his bedroom door, this wouldn’t look right, wouldn’t look the way pals ought to, and he knows that.

Maybe Steve doesn’t understand, though, because he’s not making any move to free himself from Bucky; maybe Sarah Rogers hasn’t ever warned her son about queers like Dad has warned him.

It’s not that _he’s_ queer—because he isn’t like that, not at all. Might be a liar and a blasphemer and half a Jew, but Bucky Barnes is no pervert. He just doesn’t want anybody getting the wrong idea about him or his friend. So he shakes Steve off of him, punches him on the shoulder, and tells him to get back to work.

 

* * *

 

December in his house is a strained affair, like it always is. Dad brings home a big fir tree that makes the whole first floor smell pleasantly of pine needles, and they all decorate it together. Bucky thinks this is supposed to be fun, and maybe in somebody else’s family it would be, but there’s a tension between his parents so thick that even Abbie notices it, and she’s not quite six yet.

She sticks close to Bucky, clinging to his leg while he drapes red ribbon around the tree branches. He reaches down to ruffle his little sister’s brown curls, then tucks the back of her white blouse into her skirt. “You had a tail sticking out,” he says in a soft, silly tone. “Like a baby goose.”

“M’not a bird,” Abbie says, giggling, but she reaches around to pat her bottom, as if to assure herself that she doesn’t have a tail.

“Oh, yes you are. You’re my little gosling,” Bucky says. Then he scoops Abbie up and lifts her high enough to hang pretty glass ornaments near the top of the tree.

“Me too!” Deborah says, and now she’s jumping up and down, tugging at Bucky’s sweater. “Me too!”

He looks to Rebecca and asks, “What about you, Becks?”

She glares at him. Rebecca is tall for her age—almost as tall as Bucky—and besides, even if she wasn’t, she despises him too much to volunteer to be picked up.

After the tree is decorated, Dad reads about the birth of Jesus from the Gospel of Matthew. Ma sits on the couch, knitting, while Bucky and the girls gather on the floor around Dad’s armchair. He stops listening when the three wise men show up, but he keeps his expression schooled into one of attentiveness while his mind wanders. Bucky doesn’t know what to buy Steve for Christmas, and it’s bothering him. His friend probably can’t afford to give him a present in return, and Bucky is afraid that anything too expensive will offend his prickly pride. But he wants to get something nice for Steve, a gift as special as he is, something that he’ll love too much to refuse—

Ma stands up right in the middle of the nativity story. Her voice is cool when she interrupts Dad to say, “I’m going to check on the cookies.”

_Oh shit_. Bucky reaches for Rebecca without thinking, grabs her hand, squeezing tighter than he should. A comfort she allows (and maybe shares in) for all of thirty seconds before pulling away and wrapping her arms around her knees.

Dad stands, sets the Bible aside, and stalks after Ma into the kitchen. Bucky hears the hissing of a quiet but heated argument, his parents’ low voices warring and hateful. Then the crash of furniture being overturned, the shattering of dishes. He knows that interfering never helps, but Bucky goes to the kitchen anyway, too scared and angry to sit idly by any longer. When he opens the door, he expects to see his father shaking Ma, maybe hitting her.

Instead, he finds Dad pressing her against the wall, strong hands holding her arms over her head as he kisses her (and Bucky would bet every penny he owns that her wrists will be ringed with blue bruises tomorrow). Ma’s kissing back—crying, struggling against him, but kissing back all the same—and when he releases her she grabs at the front of his shirt, delicate hands scratching and scrabbling for purchase. Like she’s trying to hold onto something impossible.

Bucky runs back to the den, heart pounding, sick to his stomach. The nauseated feeling worsens when he hears his parents stumble out of the kitchen, hurrying upstairs to their bedroom.

He doesn’t understand how Ma can still want that bastard, after everything he does to hurt her and the girls, but he tries not to judge her for it. Because what other choice does she have, really? Turning away a husband like that won’t earn her anything but more pain.

 

* * *

 

Dad allows him to spend the nights of December 26th and 27th with Steve. Even though the Rogers’s shoebox apartment is barely decorated, and their food is a bit scarce, Bucky loves every minute of his stay. Sarah works through most of the weekend, and he figures this must be a regular enough occurrence, because Steve seems used to his ma’s long hours at the hospital.

He waits until late Sunday night to give Steve his present. When he finally works up the nerve, Bucky climbs out of bed, digs the clumsily wrapped gift out of his knapsack, and shoves it into Steve’s hands. “Here. Merry Christmas, you punk.”

Steve sits up, looking thunderstruck, and says, “You shouldn’t have done this, Buck. You know I can’t give you nothing—”

Bucky sits beside him and waves his hand dismissively. “Just open it.”

Steve unwraps the paper with the greatest care and picks up his gift. He doesn’t smile or say anything, simply cradles the watercolor paints in his hands, a frown pulling at his full mouth.

“I noticed that you don’t have anything to make art with except for your pencils, and—and I, uh, figured you might want to do pictures in color sometime. Thought you’d like to try something new, yanno?” Bucky asks, and Christ, why does he sound so high-pitched and stupid?

“It’s a thoughtful gift,” Steve says.

“So, you don’t hate it?” Bucky asks.

“No! Of course not.” But Steve keeps staring at the paint set in his hands, unmoving, expressionless.

Bucky nudges his shoulder. “Then why do you look like somebody pissed in your cereal?”

Steve finally glances at him. “I only ever sketch because I’m color blind,” he admits quietly.

“You’re fucking kidding me?” Bucky leans closer, staring into Steve’s eyes like he might spot the deficiency there. That’s stupid, though, because his eyes are beautiful— _perfect_ even. Long-lashed, somehow sleepy and alert at once, the slightest hint of green drowning in blue.

“Afraid not. When I told you I had nearly everything wrong with me, I meant it,” Steve says. He shrugs, but if he’s going for nonchalant he falls pretty far short of the mark.

“So what, am I all black and white to you?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Steve says, shaking his head. “I can see _some_ colors, like blue and red, but not much of anything else.”

Bucky smirks. “How patriotic of you.”

Steve flips him the bird, and Bucky pulls him into a friendly headlock, too gentle to be anything but annoying. “You’re such a disrespectful little shit,” he says, but they’re both laughing.

Steve may be small, but he’s wily and surprisingly nimble for a kid with a crooked back, and he manages to wriggle his way out of the headlock. That won’t do, not at all. Bucky feels a strange need to overpower Steve, a desire that’s more possessive than competitive. He pushes him down, captures his slender wrists and pins them over his head. Something about having Steve beneath him like this, caught between Bucky and the bed, sends a thrill through him. And he understands that this has nothing to do with boyish rivalry; it’s all about control, power, maybe even ownership.

There’s something uncomfortably familiar about holding Steve this way, even though their wrestling has never grown so oddly fervent before, and it takes a moment for Bucky to realize _why_ : this is exactly how his father held Ma in the kitchen a few short weeks ago, trapping her against her the wall the same way Bucky now traps Steve to the bed. Except his parents had kissed, and Steve is only looking up at him with frustration—

He springs away, suddenly disgusted with himself, and thank God Steve’s too irritated to notice how shaken Bucky is.

“Sorry about the watercolors,” he says hurriedly. “I guess they’re not much use to you, huh?”

Steve gives him a look like he’s slow. “It was real nice of you, and besides—”

“If you say ‘it’s the thought that counts,’ I might actually hurt you,” Bucky warns.

“Well, sorta,” Steve says, and he’s grinning again now. “It’s, I dunno, kind of a big compliment that you thought enough of my sketches to give me art supplies. So thanks.”

The sick knot in his stomach loosens at the sight of Steve’s smile, and Bucky can’t help but smile back. “No problem. Maybe I’ll get you useless presents every Christmas. How does some stock sound?”

 

* * *

 

Steve has fallen sick with a handful of colds in the last six months, but it isn’t until he’s laid low by pneumonia that Bucky finally understands how fragile his health is. He’s unable to leave his bed for most of January, coughing, feverish, vomiting, and wracked with chills. Steve begs his mother not to take him to Kings County Hospital, and Bucky knows this plea is borne as much from his fear of being a burden as it is from his dislike of doctors.

Sarah assures Bucky that Steve will be fine, that he was much sicker last winter and pulled through. This is hard to believe when he sees his friend coughing up blood (if only when he isn’t too busy puking into a bucket). Every day he grows frailer, his already skinny frame diminished down to nothing, what weight he had whittled away by illness.

Bucky dreams about Steve dying, his delicate body grown still and white, a hint of red coloring his lips. Beautiful and static and gone before he has time to do much of anything. Frozen with rigor mortis, stiff and cold, unresponsive no matter how much Bucky shakes him.

He wakes trembling, crying, so sick with fear that he can’t stand to stay here, not one minute longer. So Bucky dresses and sneaks out of the house. He takes a midnight train to Red Hook, scales the fire escape, and slips into Steve’s room, for once thankful for the broken locks on the Rogers’s windows.

Bucky kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed with Steve. He’s shivering violently, even though his skin is sweat-slicked and hot to the touch.

Steve blinks at him, gaze bleary with sleep and fever. When he speaks, his words come out jerkily, a staccato question pushed through chattering teeth. “Buck? What are you doing here?”

“Are you cold? You look cold.” Bucky pulls the covers up over them more securely and wraps his arms around Steve.

“No, I don’t want to get you sick—” Steve protests, but his voice is too weak to carry much authority.

“I’ve got the constitution of a horse,” Bucky says. “I never get sick, so don’t worry about me, okay?”

Steve must be exhausted, because he doesn’t argue further. He snuggles closer to Bucky, shivering, and allows himself to be held. His skin feels sticky, and he smells like sweat, blood, and bile. Bucky runs his fingers through Steve’s greasy hair, uncaring that he stinks of sickness and needs a bath something awful. He’s _alive_ ; that’s all that really matters.


	3. BUCKY: 1.3

## 1.3

#### "What is the son but an extension of the father?"

#### \- Frank Herbert -

∞

#####  **July to December 1931**

 

 

There’s something unfair about the fact that his father is so kind to Steve. It’s not that Bucky resents this, exactly, and he certainly doesn’t want Dad to be cruel to his best friend. But Steve is so many of the things that his father objectively despises: poor, Catholic, and one generation away from being foreign-born. It could really only be worse if he was queer, colored, or Jewish. So why is he always so goddamn _nice_ to Steve?

Maybe Bucky resents it a little.

Ever since Dad learned that he and Steve’s father had been in the same regiment during the Great War, he’s taken to telling stories about his time in the Army. He talks about serving in the 107th, the nasty rations and enemy fire, fighting alongside his brothers-in-arms. Dad says that he and Joseph Rogers only spoke a few times, but that he seemed like a decent, reliable sort. Sometimes he even claps Steve on the shoulder or ruffles his hair, the way fathers do with their sons; the way he never does with Bucky, unless there’s an audience to impress.

His friend laps up the war stories and the gruff, paternal attention like an eager puppy, and Bucky feels like a piece of shit for begrudging Steve these things. He can’t help that he grew up without a father, so of course he’d attach himself to any grown man who treats him this way. Bucky’s dad might be brutal behind closed doors, but he’s unfailingly friendly in front of company.

The worst part is that it isn’t an act. Bucky understands his father very well (no matter how he wishes he didn’t), and he knows exactly what Dad sees when he looks at Steve: a brave, resilient boy who never lets life’s challenges keep him down for long. These are qualities that George Barnes admires, and he doesn’t have to say that Steve would be a better son—a child he could be proud of—for both he and Bucky to know it’s true.

He can’t even blame his father for that, because Bucky is all too aware of his own shortcomings. He’s temperamental, sensitive, and vain. Charming when it suits him and mean when it doesn’t. Cowardly, if you get right down to it, but he masks his fearful nature with a violent recklessness that most people mistaken for courage. Steve is going to grow into ten times the man that Bucky will ever be, and it’s hypocritical to fault Dad for realizing this.

Tonight, Bucky sits on the loveseat in the living room, pretending to read a book while he eavesdrops on Steve’s conversation with his father. It’s another Army story, so Bucky doesn’t fully listen until he hears Joseph Rogers’s name.

“What was he like?” Steve asks, and his voice is full of so much yearning, wistful and sad, that Bucky’s chest tightens in response.

“We weren’t friends, but everyone in the 107th knew that Joseph was strong and brave. Not unlike you,” Dad says, and he points at Steve.

“Me? I’m not strong, and—well, guts don’t count for much if you can’t protect anybody,” Steve says hurriedly.

Bucky keeps stealing glances over the top of his novel, so he sees his father smile warmly, an expression he usually reserves for Rebecca.

“James tells me that you stand up for people who can’t stand up for themselves,” Dad says. “I didn’t know your father well, Steven, but I think he’d be proud of the man you’re becoming.”

Steve ducks his head, cheeks stained a bashful pink, and says, “Thank you, sir.”

Bucky tries not to hate his father or envy Steve, but he fails pretty spectacularly on both fronts.

Much later, after Steve is sprawled out on the guest cot in Bucky’s room, he lies in his own bed, wide awake. Too nervous, agitated, and thirsty to find any rest. So Bucky gets up and wanders downstairs, tiptoes into the kitchen, and pours himself a glass of water.

It’s so dark that he doesn’t even realize he isn’t alone until his father’s voice breaks the shadowed quiet. “Can’t sleep?” he asks.

Dad sits at the kitchen table, stiff and straight-backed, too dedicated to maintaining his military posture to bend his stubborn spine, even in the middle of the night.

“Not yet,” Bucky says. He drinks his water in one long gulp, sets the glass in the sink, and waits to be dismissed.

Dad pats the chair next to him and says, “Sit. Talk to me.”

Bucky takes a wary seat. He almost mirrors his father, but instead of sitting rigidly, he allows himself to slouch. A few minutes pass in silence, and Dad seems unforthcoming with questions, so Bucky decides to pose one of his own.

It’s a stupid, heedless thing to say, but he’s angry and tired of being constantly careful, so he asks, “If I was more like Steve, would you still beat me?”

His father makes a short, rough sound that might be a laugh. “If ifs and ands were pots and pans, there’d be no work for tinkers.”

Bucky scowls, because he wants the truth, not some trite saying. “What does that even mean?”

Dad sighs, leans his chair back onto two legs, balancing his weight on precarious twin points. “That excuses are cheap and nearly everybody has one. But I don’t believe in excuses.”

“That’s still not an answer,” Bucky says, and he knows he’s pushing his luck. Normally, his father would never tolerate this conversation, but he seems to be in an odd mood tonight.

“I wouldn’t hit Steve,” Dad admits. He lets his chair fall back onto all four legs, and the sound is startlingly loud in the stillness of this sleeping house. “He’d probably never deserve it anyway, and even if he did, he’s too fragile. It’d be like kicking a dog.”

That pisses Bucky off, because his father’s reasoning needs serious adjustment. Steve might be sickly and crippled, but he’s tough as nails, just about unbreakable. And Bucky was only three years old the first time (that he can recall) that Dad beat him black and blue. What could possibly be more fragile than a child that small?

Bucky decides to call out his father on the less messy of his misjudgments. “You told Steve he was strong. Was that bullshit?”

“Don’t cuss,” Dad says, but it’s an almost robotic reprimand, more reflexive than meaningful. “No, it wasn’t bullshit. Steve is weak-bodied but strong-minded. The opposite of us.”

Bucky can’t honestly argue with that assessment, but his father’s words have made him feel sick, and he doesn’t want to talk to him anymore. “Can I go back to bed now?”

Dad waves his hand toward the door. “Get out of here.”

Bucky returns to his room, but instead of climbing into his own bed, he sits on the edge of Steve’s cot. He takes up more space than somebody so scrawny has any right to, skinny limbs akimbo, one arm dangling off the mattress.

Bucky sleeps just the same way, so whenever he stays over at the Rogers’s place, they end up sprawled together, invading each other’s halves of the trundle bed. This is one of many reasons why Bucky prefers spending the night with Steve, instead of the other way around. Waking up tangled with his friend is comforting, and it makes him feel less alone.

Bucky needs that closeness right now, so he nudges Steve and whispers, “Scoot over, you punk.”

“Bucky?” Steve blinks up at him with bleary eyes, and his voice is thick, dazed. “What’re you…”

He fits himself alongside Steve, even though this cot is nowhere near big enough for the both of them. They’re pressed right up against each other and still spilling over the edges of the mattress, but Bucky doesn’t care, not right now.

“Hey, are you okay?” Steve asks, and he sounds clearer, more concerned than sleepy.

_I’m fine_ , Bucky thinks, but for some reason he can’t force the words out. He presses his face against Steve’s neck, breathes in the scents of charcoal and cheap soap on his skin. He hopes that getting close enough will help him escape the panic that claws at his insides, that twists his gut into knots and steals his breath. Maybe if he wraps up his body with Steve’s he can lose himself altogether.

 

* * *

 

He slips back into his own bed before dawn. Bucky’s ashamed of the way he clung to Steve, and he’s a little afraid of what his friend might think of him for it.

Silver sunlight creeps through the blinds within the hour, weak and wan. Bucky lies on his back, listening to Steve’s wheezing breaths and the patter of rain against the window, until his alarm sounds. He smacks at the chirping clock, stifling the noise, then drags himself out of bed.

Steve sleeps on, dead to the world, and Bucky has to shake his shoulder to wake him. “Get up, lazybones. Ma’s probably about done with breakfast.”

Steve grunts, buries his face in his pillow, and grumbles something unintelligible.

Bucky shakes him again, then says, “C’mon, you bum. It’s Sunday, and I know you don’t want to get dragged to my heathen church without a bellyful of pancakes.”

When Steve remains still—either feigning sleep or simply ignoring Bucky with unrepentant audacity—he yanks the pillow out from under his head and smacks him across the ass with it.

Steve yelps, rolls over, and glares at Bucky. “You’re a real jerk,” he says around a wide yawn, but he crawls off the cot and starts stripping out of his pajamas.

Bucky knows he shouldn’t watch, but for some reason he can’t keep from looking. Steve has grown some since they met last summer, if not much. He’s still short and worryingly thin, and strangers take him for a child of nine or ten often enough to be irritating. Bucky thinks that’s dumb, though, because if you look beyond Steve’s small stature, then his actual age is obvious, written all over his stubborn, too-serious face.

Steve takes off his pajama pants and pulls his ribbed, white undershirt over his head. Dull morning light catches on his sharp shoulder blades, throwing shadows across the slight curves of his body. His skin is fair and clear, unblemished by the sort of subtle marks that started stretching across Bucky’s back in the wake of his recent growth spurt.

Steve glances over his shoulder, frowning, like he could feel Bucky’s gaze. “Staring is rude,” he says dryly.

“I wasn’t,” Bucky mutters, and he hurries to change into his own Sunday best.

Steve snorts, steps into his trousers, and says, “Sure, you were just looking off into space. Right at my crooked spine.”

Bucky might have been looking a little too closely to be polite, but it wasn’t because he finds anything wrong with Steve’s body.

“You really think I care about that?” he asks.

Steve shrugs, buckles his belt. “I dunno. Most people do.”

Bucky’s only half-dressed himself, wearing black pants and socks, but he’s still shirtless and shoeless. He walks over to Steve, wraps an around around his naked shoulders, and says, “Maybe I was admiring how pretty you are. Ever think of that?”

“Get off me!” Steve wriggles away, a scowl turning down his pouty mouth, looking every bit as annoyed as Bucky meant to make him.

He can’t help but grin. “Jeez, pal, learn how to take a compliment.”

Steve shoots him a dirty look as he reaches for his shirt.

As close as they were pressed together last night, Bucky could feel that he didn’t sleep in his back brace, and it seems like Steve means to leave it off today too. He doesn’t want to nag, not when Sarah already fusses over him all the time, but Bucky has to say something about it.

“Are you gonna wear your brace?” he asks.

Steve stops, his nicest button-down shirt caught in his fist. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he says softly. “It’s sort of impossible to get into it by myself.”

Bucky’s heart beats faster, but he manages to sound steady and casual when he says, “Well I could help you with that.”

He prays that Steve doesn’t find his offer offensive or strange, and he rushes to add, “Only if you want to put it on, though. I’m not trying to make you or anything.”

“I know,” Steve says. He sets aside his shirt, fidgets for a moment, then digs the brace out of his knapsack.

It’s made of brown leather and rigid, medical cotton that’s starting to turn yellow. Steve wraps the brace around his body, fastens the clasps across the front with practiced efficiency, and mumbles, “I need you to tighten up the buckles on the back.”

“Sure. Of course.” Bucky rushes over, feeling awkward and oddly aware of his hands.

Steve stands with his forearms against the wall, head bowed.

Bucky fumbles at first, his fingers suddenly shaky and uncooperative, but after a moment he regains some control. He adjusts the straps until the brace appears to fit snugly and asks, “How’s that?”

Steve shakes his head. “Needs to be tighter. Stupid thing isn’t worth much if it’s not cutting off my circulation.”

He pulls on the straps again, and then once more at Steve’s command, until he can see the leather and stiff cotton digging into pale skin. “How the hell do you breathe in this thing?” he asks.

Steve laughs and says, “Not too well.”

Bucky lets go and steps back as soon as he’s done. When Steve turns around his face is bright red, his slender shoulders hunched. He won’t look up, and his whole body radiates shame.

“Hey. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about,” Bucky says, pulling Steve into a loose hug. “You hear me?”

“Don’t coddle me. Please? That just makes it worse.”

Steve ducks out of his embrace, and Bucky tries not to show how much he hates this—how much he hates it any time they have to stop touching.

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s family takes a short vacation to Indiana in July, same as they do every other summer. He despises these trips, because Shelbyville is in the middle of nowhere, sharing the backseat of the car with Deborah and Rebecca for seven hundred miles is pure hell, and visiting Grandpa and Nana always puts Dad in a foul mood. Everybody knows the reason for his father’s displeasure, but they don’t discuss it.

They haven’t even been in Shelbyville for an hour before Grandpa backhands Dad. It’s strange, watching a wrinkled, white-haired man hit his forty-year-old son for talking out of turn, and Bucky has to look away, mildly embarrassed on his father’s behalf. (He wonders if this is why Dad never hits him in the face, never strikes him in front of other people. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with keeping secrets at all. Maybe he has just enough kindness hidden away somewhere to spare Bucky this sort of humiliation.)

Some small, petty part of him wants to celebrate, because even if he’s unable to hit his father, at least _someone_ can. Mostly, though, it just makes him sad to see Dad flinch and cower, like he’s a child himself. If Grandpa had never beaten Dad when he was growing up, then Dad might not beat Bucky and his sisters now, and he doesn’t like to think on that too much.

His grandparents’ farmhouse is much smaller than his family’s brownstone in Brooklyn, and it looks like a strong wind could blow it down. Sometimes Bucky forgets that Dad didn’t come from much of anything, that he distinguished himself in the war and worked his way through Harvard Law to provide his family with what they have. Visiting Shelbyville always reminds him of uncomfortable truths, and that’s just one more reason to hate this place.

Bucky lies on the floor of the den, wrapped up in a nest of blankets and pillows with his sisters. Abbie’s curled against his chest, drooling, her mouth open around the thumb she fell asleep sucking on (even though she’s six now and he’s really got to break her of that habit). Deb snores quietly, snuffles, and turns over without waking. Rebecca’s perfectly still, lying on her side with her back to Bucky, but he can tell from her breathing that she’s just as awake as he is.

“It’s only three more days,” he says quietly.

Rebecca doesn’t answer for a few minutes, but then she asks, “Do you think we’ll hurt our kids too?”

“I won’t,” Bucky says, voice firm with conviction, because he’s never giving himself the chance. “I’m not having any.”

“That’s smart,” Rebecca whispers. “Maybe I won’t either.”

So what if he never makes a family? Bucky doesn’t care about settling down with a girl anyway.

He can’t move easily, not with Abbie asleep on his chest, but Bucky reaches over and pats Rebecca’s shoulder. She relaxes under his hand, and he hopes that his touch brings her some small comfort.

 

* * *

 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Steve says, but his busted mouth is so swollen that the words come out slurred.

The first thing Bucky did when he got home from Shelbyville was catch the train to Red Hook. He’s been wired for the last twenty-four hours, unable to read or sleep in the car, so excited to see Steve again that he couldn’t focus on anything else. Now he’s here, standing in the middle of his friend’s stuffy bedroom, but everything’s all wrong.

Steve is a mess: both eyes blackened, lips split, nose broken, his left arm encased in a plaster cast. Sarah told Bucky that he’s got three cracked ribs too, and that he lost one of his back teeth. Somebody beat the hell out of Steve, but he won’t tell his ma who it was.

Bucky’s so angry that he feels like his skin is on fire. When he gets his hands on whoever did this, they’re going to wish they were dead.

He sits beside Steve and touches his shoulder, careful not to apply much pressure, in case he’s injured there too.

“Look, I know you’re proud, and no snitch besides, but you’re gonna name names,” Bucky says, and it’s some kind of miracle that he’s keeping his voice this even and calm.

Steve shakes his head, all mulish determination.

Even the worst whipping Bucky’s ever had didn’t leave him half this battered, and there’s no way he’s letting somebody get away with hurting Steve like this.

“How many were there?” he asks.

“Four,” Steve says, and he’s actually _smiling_ , the crazy bastard. “Gotta admire their teamwork I guess.”

“Not really,” Bucky says. Only the worst sort of cowards gang up on a kid like that, four to one, so that narrows down the list of suspects.

“Was it the Fiscella brothers?” he asks. “I know Gino’s been sore ever since you stopped him from bothering that German girl.”

“Her name is Doris, and she was doing a pretty good job of protecting herself before I showed up,” Steve says.

He dodged Bucky’s question, but he can tell from Steve’s body language that his first guess was off-base anyway.

“Seamus and his gang then?” Bucky asks.

Steve looks away and says, “Stop asking. I’m not telling you who it was.”

That’s answer enough, and Bucky springs off the bed, ready to hunt down Seamus and give him a dose of his own medicine. “That sorry sonofabitch,” he says. “I swear to God, I’m gonna beat the Irish out of him.”

“Bucky! Please don’t. It’ll just make everything worse.” Steve might be giving him that puppy-dog look that usually melts his anger in an instant, but his face is too bruised for it to have its typical effect.

Bucky shakes his head and starts pacing. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I can give you two,” Steve says fiercely. “First: I’m the one who’s hurt, and I’m asking you not to. Second: Mrs. Rourke’s got enough problems without you beating her son half to death.”

Bucky cusses, because Steve isn’t wrong about this. Half of Red Hook knows that Mr. Rourke drinks too much and knocks around all eight of his kids, like some kind of mick cliché come to life. He doesn’t feel very sorry for Seamus, though, because Bucky’s got a heavy-handed father too, and that doesn’t give him the right to beat up seventy-pound asthmatics.

“Promise me that you’ll leave Seamus alone,” Steve says.

Bucky throws his hands in the air. “For Christ’s sake, he coulda _killed_ you—”

“Promise,” Steve repeats, harder this time. “You won’t harm one hair on his head. Got it?”

“Well aren’t you just a fucking martyr?” Bucky asks, too furious to care how nasty he sounds. “Saint Rogers, taking beatings from bullies and turning the other cheek! I sure hope the self-righteousness feels good enough to make up for all the broken bones.”

Steve glares at him. “That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care about fairness!” Bucky shouts. _I care about keeping you safe._

He doesn’t like this feeling—an overwhelming need to stay close to Steve, to protect him regardless of cost or consequence. And he doesn’t like what it’s doing to him either. Making him angry, belligerent, and cruel.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Bucky runs his hands through his hair, so frustrated that he can’t find the right words.

“It’s all right,” Steve says, and he doesn’t sound upset anymore. “Just don’t hurt Seamus, okay?”

Bucky nods. “Fine. I don’t like it, but fine.”

Steve frowns, disbelief showing plain on his face, even through all the bruising. “You swear?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I swear.”

 

* * *

 

Steve’s stuck in a cast for the rest of the summer, and he stays in bed most of the time because of his cracked ribs. Bucky can’t stand seeing his friend so hurt, but he keeps his word, and he doesn’t go looking for Seamus.

Steve manages to get back on his feet just before school starts, and he’s more worried about how he looks than how he feels. He’s far from vain, but his nose healed kind of crooked, and now he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, surveying the damage.

“I don’t see what you’re so worried about,” Bucky says. “It doesn’t look any different to me. Too big for your face, maybe, but you’ve always sort of favored a vulture.”

Steve grins and asks, “A vulture? Really?”

“Hey, I get to make fun of anybody else’s nose if I want to,” Bucky says loftily. “Considering all the stupid Jew jokes that I’ve had to listen to over the years.”

Thank God that none of his classmates know about his heritage. Because if Hal Thompson ever directs one of his ignorant comments about Jews at Bucky, he’ll probably end up expelled from school.

Steve makes a sympathetic face. “Good point.”

Bucky spends the last day of summer vacation at Rockaway Beach with his family and Steve. Rebecca hides under her umbrella like she’s afraid sunlight will kill her, while Deb and Abbie build sandcastles too close to the sea. His parents go swimming, and they look so happy together, kissing and laughing as they tread water, that Bucky can almost pretend they’re a normal married couple.

Steve doesn’t know how to swim, so Bucky takes it upon himself to teach him. This proves disastrous, because Steve can’t hold his breath for long, and his attempts to breaststroke and backstroke are downright sad. After about half an hour of this, they give up and wade back toward the shore.

“To be so light you sure are good at sinking,” Bucky says.

Steve splashes him. “Maybe I’ve just got a bad teacher.”

Bucky splashes back, and this soon devolves into wrestling. Playfully punching and tackling each other, rolling around right in the surf. Steve doesn’t have half of Bucky’s strength, but he’s crafty and evasive, good at slipping out of headlocks and dodging friendly smacks. They end up sprawled side by side on the wet sand, laughing and breathless, talking shit to each other.

For a moment, it seems like the whole world is blue—bright sky and roiling ocean and Steve’s smiling eyes—and Bucky has never felt more at peace.

 

* * *

 

Going back to school is a mixed blessing. Classes and football practice take up most of Bucky’s time, keeping him out of his house and beyond Dad’s reach, but he also sees so much less of Steve. He misses his best friend, and it irks him that Steve doesn’t seem as bothered by their time apart as Bucky is. It’s not personal, it’s just that Steve is so damn independent, and he was used to doing things on his own long before Bucky came into his life. If loneliness ever bothers him, he doesn’t let it show.

Bucky stays busy throughout the fall. He makes excellent grades in all of his subjects, and he’s the top of his class in Latin, French, and chemistry. Very few of his pals from junior high attend his new school—mainly because the private tuition became too steep for a lot of families to afford—but Bucky makes new friends easily enough. He helps out Leonard Nell in English, eats lunch with Ulysses Roberts and Matthew Peterson (his pastor’s only kid), and studies algebra with Sally Whitman. She’s smart and quiet, better at math than everybody else in their class put together. Some of the boys dislike her for this, but Bucky thinks Sally is swell, and he never minds when she teaches him a better way to solve an equation.

Things start out a little rockier with his football team. It’s rare for a freshman to make varsity, but Coach Polaski brags that Bucky’s one of the best halfbacks he’s ever seen, and he doesn’t hesitate to start him. His teammates don’t appreciate that, but Bucky doesn’t let their resentment get to him. He’s quick, agile, and sure-handed, every bit as skilled at his position as Coach says he is. He knows he’s earned this spot, and by the end of the first game, everybody else knows it too. Before the season is over, his teammates don’t even use his name anymore; instead, they affectionately call him “Seventeen,” after his uniform number.

Steve always says he has a way of fitting in everywhere, and Rebecca’s assessment is similar, if less flattering: she tells Bucky that he’s like a chameleon, happy to change his colors to suit his surroundings. If he’s honest with himself, Bucky figures that they’re probably both onto something.

 

* * *

 

1931 was a good year for Dad’s law firm, so Bucky receives even more Christmas presents than usual, including new clothes, a leather banded wrist watch, and _Tarzan Triumphant_ (which he’s been wanting to read for weeks). He isn’t expecting anything else, so when his father pulls him aside after dinner and says, “I’ve got something for you,” he’s surprised.

Dad leads him into his study, walks to his desk, pulls a knife from the bottom drawer, and hands it to Bucky.

The handle is weighty, adorned with spiked knuckles, engraved with _U.S. 1918_. Bucky touches the points along the bows and imagines what it would feel like to punch someone with all that heavy bronze guarding your hand, a fist made of metal. When he unsheathes the blade, he sees that it’s six or seven inches of blackened steel, deadly and beautiful. The dagger is almost as old as Bucky, but it’s untarnished, sharp-edged and free of rust.

“This was my trench knife,” Dad says. “It saved my life more than once.”

Bucky wonders how many men died on the end of this blade. He’s held weapons before, of course, but it’s different, knowing that the tool in your hands has actually been used to kill.

“What’s it like?” Bucky whispers. He can’t quite find the nerve to ask the question in its entirety, but his father must know what he’s getting at.

Dad is quiet for a long moment, expression vacant and detached. Then he says, “Killing is just like anything else you think you can’t bear. Intolerable, until you get used to it.”

Bucky knows a thing or two about that. He runs his thumb across the knife’s handle, savoring how cool the bronze is, the uneven texture of the engraving.

“Thank you,” Bucky says. He doesn’t know why Dad decided to give this to him, and he isn’t too sure of what it means. But this weapon helped to shape his father into a soldier, and that alone makes it a gift worth respecting.

The next night, at the Rogers’s apartment, he shows the knife to Steve. It’s late, but the moon is full, and its light shines through the window brightly, illuminating his father’s present.

“Wow,” Steve says. “That’s really something.”

Bucky pulls the blade free from its sheath, and an idea strikes him with such force that he shivers—a sudden need to make his feelings for Steve real, spelled out in blood and covenant.

He sits up and says, “Give me your hand.”

Steve doesn’t even hesitate. He sits up too, holds out his hand, and asks, “What, do you wanna make an oath or something?”

Bucky pricks the middle of his own palm. He feels the sting of the cut distantly, almost like it’s happening to someone else, and watches his blood well up around the knifepoint. In the darkness, it looks black rather than red. Then he does the same to Steve, if more gently.

“Not an oath,” Bucky says. “We’re gonna make a _neder_. Ma told me about it once. It’s like a pledge or a promise, but way more powerful. There’s not really a good translation for it, because we don’t have a word in English that means a vow with that kind of strength.”

He takes Steve’s bloody hand in his own. Clasps it so that their injuries line up, fitting their hurts together like puzzle pieces. “A _neder_ is supposed to be unbreakable, so violating it is a really awful sin.”

Steve squeezes Bucky’s hand and says, “But I’m not Jewish, and you don’t believe. Will it really mean much if we make a _neder_ to God?”

“We’re not making it to God,” Bucky confesses. “We’re making it to each other.”

This is the most blasphemous thing he’s ever said, and Bucky half-expects Steve—whose faith runs so deeply—to balk at the suggestion.

Instead, he nods and says, “I’m ready when you are.”

Bucky thinks of the Book of Ruth and says, “Whither thou goest I will—”

He stops himself, because reciting the Bible word for word is less important than saying this the way he wants to. Bucky takes a deep breath and tries again: “Wherever you go I will go, and wherever you stay I will stay.”

Steve grins; he knows these verses (of course he does). “Your people will be my people, and your God my God,” he says softly.

“Where you die, I will die, and that’s where I’ll be buried,” Bucky says. His hand is trembling now, but only because this is the truest promise he’s ever made.

Steve’s smile slips, and when he speaks again he sounds solemn. “Let the Lord answer to me if even death separates us.”

That isn’t at all how that line is supposed to go. Instead of an invitation for punishment, Steve made is sound like a _threat_ against God. As if he plans to take on the Almighty Himself, should the Lord allow death to come between them.

Bucky can’t remember anything else from Ruth, but he isn’t finished. “I’ll stay by your side through the good and the bad and everything in between,” he says. “I’m with you no matter what.”

Steve nods, and he grasps Bucky’s hand more tightly. “I’m with you too,” he swears. “Till the end of the line.”

Blood slides down their wrists, irreversibly commingled.


	4. BUCKY: 1.4

## 1.4

#### "In case you ever foolishly forget: I am never not thinking of you."

#### \- Virginia Woolf -

∞

#####  **May 1932 to January 1933**

 

 

Bucky decides to join the baseball team, mostly to keep himself out from under his father’s roof. He’s a decent enough batter, a better pitcher, and damn good to have in the outfield, but he’s only ever played pickup games in his neighborhood when there was nothing else to do. Really, he finds baseball a bit boring, but he chooses it over the other spring sports because he knows it would please Steve.

It takes the rest of the school year for Bucky to work up the courage to invite his best friend to a game, the very last of the season. He knows it’s stupid to feel nervous about this, but he wants Steve to see him doing well at something, to be proud of him.

“Course I’ll come,” Steve says. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything, Buck.”

He practices constantly throughout the last week of May, and he even recruits Rebecca to help him. She’s got a mean right arm, and Bucky pays her a dollar to join him at the park. She throws the ball as high and as far as she can, so he can practice catching.

When they’re both too tired to keep at it, they walk back home, sweaty and short of breath.

“You never asked for my help during football season,” Rebecca says. She glances at him, dark eyes narrowed.

Bucky shrugs. “I’m better at football.”

His sister grins, because even if they fight like cats and dogs, she knows him just as well as he knows her. “You’re trying to impress somebody,” Rebecca says loftily. “Who is she?”

Bucky can’t quite meet her gaze when he says, “I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

He hurries ahead, kicking a crumpled newspaper out of his way, eager to escape his nosy sister.

“You’re a liar,” she says, and there’s something mean lurking underneath her playful tone.

“Yeah, well what else is new?” Bucky asks sharply. “It’s none of your damn business, Becks.”

Rebecca punches his shoulder hard enough to bruise and make him swear. She can be a vicious little bitch when the mood strikes her. “Fine. See if I ever help you again.”

She might mean that threat, but it won’t last. Because no matter how much they fight, Bucky and Rebecca don’t give up on each other. Not ever.

 

* * *

 

The night before his last baseball game, Bucky examines the trench knife his father gave him. Runs his fingers over the engraved _1918_ (the year Steve was born), then along the cold, blackened steel. Bucky teases the tip of the blade with his thumb, thinking of the _neder_ he made with his best friend. The vows they spoke and the sweet sting as his flesh gave way to the knifepoint. That small pain was well worth the cost of hearing Steve promise that they’d be with each other forever.

He falls asleep with the trench knife clutched in his hands, thinking about how their bloodied palms fit together so perfectly.

 

* * *

 

Bucky nearly trips over his own feet when he sees Steve standing up in the bleachers, shouting his name. It’s a miracle that he catches the ball, because the only thing that seems to exist in all the world is his friend’s cheering.

The Bears scrape a narrow win, and that’s it, they ended their season on a victory. After the game is over, Coach Mills says, “Keep your head out of the clouds if you want to make this team next year, Barnes.”

There’s more, a stern lecture about paying attention and practicing over the summer, but Bucky’s barely listening. As soon as he’s free to go, he hurries to meet Steve and pulls him behind the bleachers.

He looks more excited than Bucky’s ever seen him, and he rambles about how incredible it was to watch a real live game instead of just listening to one on the wireless. “That was amazing!” he says. “ _You’re_ amazing.”

Bucky bites his bottom lip to keep from grinning too stupidly. “I’m amazing, huh? About time you noticed.”

Steve’s smile falls and he takes a half-step backward, like he’s afraid to share space. Bucky nearly moves forward to reclaim the lost ground, but he keeps himself in check.

“I just meant that you’re a great player,” Steve says. “That’s all.”

Bucky throws an arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him close. He smells like spring, mown grass and the light rain that nearly ruined this game before it started. They’re close enough that Bucky can see the pulse beating in Steve’s throat—too fast to be normal, and he wonders if it’s due his friend’s laundry list of health problems, or perhaps something less expected.

Even though there are a hundred people on the other side of these bleachers, his coach and his teammates and all their families, Bucky leans down and says, “I’m glad you had a good time, Stevie.”

He shivers, his whole skinny body quaking against Bucky’s. He stares at the flush on Steve’s cheeks, the rapid pulse beating beneath the fragile skin of his slender neck, his full lips. So pink, and how is it that the smart mouth that gets Steve into so much goddamn trouble can look this vulnerable? Tender and inviting.

Bucky pulls away before he does anything reckless, shocked at himself and sick to his stomach.

Steve must notice that something’s wrong, because he keeps stealing worried glances at him as they walk to Bucky’s house, but he doesn’t pry.

He’s never wanted Steve to stay over less, but sending him away would be mean, and too rude for his parents to allow, so Bucky just ignores him throughout the rest of the night and turns in early.

Darkness blankets his bedroom, silence thickening the air, its weight uncomfortable between them.

The springs of the cot squeak as Steve rolls over. “Are you mad at me?” he asks.

Bucky turns away, because he can feel Steve looking toward him in the dark, even if he can’t see it. “No. The game wore me out is all.”

“Okay,” Steve whispers, and he probably means to sound reassured, but he’s such a bad liar that Bucky can hear the disbelief in that one word alone.

He listens to Steve toss and turn on the hard cot, his struggling breaths growing shorter and more labored, until he can’t stand the wheezing anymore. Bucky sits up, tosses his blankets aside, and says, “That bed might as well be made of bricks. Get over here before you have an asthma attack.”

“I’m fine,” Steve says, but Bucky doesn’t have any patience for his stubbornness. Not tonight.

“There’s plenty of room,” he says.

Bucky tells himself that his insistence is purely for Steve’s benefit. That this is about giving him a comfortable place to sleep and nothing else.

Steve sneaks across the room, bare feet whispering on the hardwood floor, but he hesitates to climb onto the bed. “What if we oversleep and your ma wakes us up in the morning? She does that sometimes.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to respond, because Steve just acknowledged how much trouble they could get into for sleeping together. Admitting, in not so many words, that they’re doing something wrong. Instead of answering, he grabs Steve’s wrist and tugs him into bed.

 

* * *

 

A loud clap of thunder rattles the window in its frame, and he jerks awake. Startled out of a sweet dream, but it takes him a moment to remember the details—Steve, soft mouth open beneath Bucky’s, yanking at his hair, whimpering wordlessly between kisses. He touches his own lips, certain he’ll find them swollen and love-bitten, before common sense kicks in and he realizes how impossible that is.

He’s hard, straining against the soft fabric of his pajamas, and Bucky covers his mouth, muffling a choked noise, when he registers how close Steve is. Cuddled up against his back, sleeping like the dead. His steady breaths tickle the nape of Bucky’s neck, warm and damp.

He clenches his teeth and tries not to move, not to make anymore noise. He’s so hard it almost hurts, and Bucky closes his eyes against the ache. Reaches down to adjust his pants, but he ends up rocking against his own hand, then freezing, terrified that his jostling might have woken Steve.

But his friend only snuggles closer, clearly still asleep.

Most fifteen-year-old boys have jerked off plenty of times, if the locker room jokes he’s laughed along with mean anything, but Bucky has rarely allowed himself that indulgence. Whenever he’s felt needy enough to try, his thoughts would stray from pretty girls to an unseen mouth in the darkness, belonging to nobody he could identify, both mysterious and familiar. Sometimes he’d imagine grasping narrow shoulders between his hands, or a slender body arching beneath him, until he came—or shame drove him to stop. He never let himself dissect exactly why he felt so guilty, but Bucky can’t keep avoiding what he knew the whole time: that the skinny figure caught under him in his fantasies has always been Steve.

He’s wound so tight, and Bucky slides his hand beneath his pajamas and underwear, grasping himself. It feels good, so much better with Steve’s even breaths against the back of his neck, his warm body pressed close to Bucky’s. His stomach feels like it’s twisted in knots, because what if he gets caught doing this?

Bucky imagines Steve waking up and recoiling, staring at him with the disgust he deserves. That fear should kill his arousal, but it doesn’t, and now he’s considering something else, a thought too vile to ever entertain again, once this moment of weakness is over: Steve doesn’t desire him, but he might let Bucky have him anyway. Because they belong to each other, and they’ve sworn to stick together forever. Maybe if he asked for what he wanted, Steve would agree just to please him, might let himself be fucked simply because Bucky begged for it—

He comes before he’s ready, limbs strained and rigid, trembling as he chokes back a pitiful sound and spills into his hand. Then it’s over, and Bucky collapses against the bed, feeling breathless, exhausted, and hollow.

As soon as his legs feel steady enough to stand on, he sneaks to the bathroom, locks himself inside, and cleans up. Under the dull yellow lights he sees the evidence of what he’s done, and Bucky can’t look at his reflection. Can’t face himself right now, and he isn’t sure which part repulses him more—that he just imagined fucking a boy, or that the thought of _using_ Steve is what finished him off.

(He remembers the night he wandered downstairs, unable to sleep, and saw his parents tangled up together on the living room floor. Ma with her cheek pressed against the Oriental carpet, his father pushing up her skirt. Bucky had wanted to run, to slip away as quietly as he could and pretend he’d never seen a thing, but some horror struck curiosity held him in place. He thought maybe his mother hadn’t agreed to this, because she was sobbing loud enough that he could hear her, even from ten feet away, and Bucky couldn’t just leave her there. Couldn’t stand by while she was raped—

But then Dad had asked, “Will you let me?”

He’d sounded so young and almost scared, nothing at all like the cold, commanding man who terrorizes his wife and children.

And his mother said, “Yes.”)

Bucky dashes to the toilet, lifts the lid, and bends over the porcelain bowl. He feels dirty and ashamed, and he wants to vomit, to expel whatever rotten thing lies inside of him. Purge until he feels clean. But the sickness is all in his head, not his body.

 

* * *

 

The summer drifts by in a slow haze of sweltering weather, and Bucky spends his time picking fights. Jumping in the middle of neighborhood bullies and their victims, provoking his father on purpose. Dad never lets him get away with running his mouth, and even if Bucky is big for his age, he doesn’t stand a chance against a man twice his size. Not that he ever defends himself—his fear of his father runs too deep to even consider it.

During the day, he wears long-sleeved shirts to cover the marks, no matter how hellish the summer grows. And at night, he worries the bruises that ring his arms and purple his belly, fingers digging into the freshest injuries. He squeezes his eyes shut against the pain and focuses on the clarity it gives him. When his body hurts this sharply, he can’t think of anything else, and that mindless calm brings a small measure of peace.

He starts arguments with Steve too. Usually just bickering that turns nasty, but sometimes they end up roughhousing in a way that’s more aggressive than playful. This isn’t like their childish tussling, because they’re no longer children (not really), and there’s too much frustration behind their scuffles for them to be innocent anymore. Heat borne from Steve’s annoyance and Bucky’s chronic want. An ugly, compulsive desire that drives him to goad his friend into fighting him, because if he can’t be touched in love, then he’ll settle for being touched in anger.

Steve’s confrontational enough to take the bait throughout June and most of July, but as August approaches, he starts ignoring Bucky.

Maybe that’s why, after a straight hour of watching Steve draw every detail of a stack of novels, Bucky knocks the thick-spined books off the table. They clatter to the rotting linoleum, the racket startlingly loud in the Rogers’s tiny kitchen.

Bucky waits for Steve to lose his temper, to shout at him for acting so petty. Instead, he takes a deep breath, rips the almost finished sketch from his pad, and turns it over so he can draw on the back. “It wasn’t that good anyway,” he says.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” Bucky hauls himself up onto the kitchen table, right in front of Steve, and leans down until he’s looming over him. “What have I got to do to get your attention?”

“Start acting like yourself again. I’m tired of this, whatever it is you’re up to,” he says, voice quiet and colorless. Then, softer, warmer: “I miss you.”

Bucky swallows hard, because he misses Steve too—misses the way they used to be before he understood what he really wanted.

“Draw me,” he says. “Since I screwed up your other sketch. It’s the least I can do.”

Before Bucky can lose his courage, he pulls his shirt over his head and drops it to the floor. A few bruises color his chest and stomach, but none of them are courtesy of his father, and Steve already knows about his latest skirmish with the Fiscella brothers.

Steve stares for a long moment, gaze flitting across his mottled belly—but then he looks away and says, “Sorry. I don’t feel much like drawing anymore.”

“Oh, c’mon, Stevie. I’m definitely more interesting than a bunch of dusty old books,” Bucky says, smirking. “Prettier too.”

He fidgets, picking at the lead tip of his pencil until the point breaks off. “I said I’m not in the mood.”

Bucky feels strangely vindicated, because of course Steve doesn’t like this; he’s not some kind of queer.

It hurts, though, because he’s still hoping that he isn’t alone in this confusion. That maybe Steve has the same strange desires, and he’s just better at hiding it.

 

* * *

 

Bucky lazes around Steve’s place the Sunday before school starts back, playing jacks (which he loses at spectacularly) because Sarah doesn’t like it when they play poker. At noon, she leaves for a twelve-hour shift at the hospital, same as she’s done every day for the last two weeks.

“Working herself to death to keep me alive,” Steve says, and Bucky’s never heard him sound so ashamed.

“Hey, stop that. Your ma loves you, and it’s not your fault that you’re—” He stops himself, because there’s not a decent way to point out your best pal’s poverty.

“You can say I’m poor,” Steve says, and now there’s a small smile tugging at his mouth. More sad than happy, but it’s better than the miserable frown he was wearing a moment ago. “It’s not like I haven’t noticed.”

“Your ma’s doing the best she can to take care of you,” Bucky says. “It’s what good mothers do—what they _want_ to do if they’re any kind of parent at all.”

Steve sits on the edge of his bed and puts his head in his hands. “I know. I just wish things weren’t like this. That she didn’t have to worry about paying for five kinds of medicine and a new back brace ‘cause I’ve outgrown the old one—”

“Shut it,” Bucky says. He sits next to Steve and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Your ma would have a fit if she knew you were beating yourself up over things you can’t help.”

Steve leans against him, resting his face against the crook of Bucky’s neck. He’s an awful friend, because this moment is about giving comfort, and now all he can think of is how Steve’s lips are so close to his throat—

Bucky pulls away and says, “I’m getting your cards. How does a game of Texas holdem sound?”

“Like a great way to lose my last fifty cents,” Steve says, but he’s laughing.

They listen to the radio while they play, goading each other and betting nickels.

Steve’s lucky enough, but he’s predictably awful at any kind of card game because he can’t lie worth a damn. Bucky bluffs his way through half his hands, and Steve never knows; his poker face is flawless.

The Rogers’s fourth floor apartment feels like an oven as the afternoon wears on, stuffy and suffocating. Steve pulls his shirt over his head and mops his sweaty brow with it, muttering about the heat.

Their friendly game takes a turn after that, because Bucky has trouble focusing. Even when he keeps his eyes on his cards, he knows that Steve’s shirtless on this bed, lounging just two feet away. He’s still small and fragile to look at, but his body is changing just as much as Bucky’s these days. What baby fat Steve had seems to have melted away over the summer, softness giving way to lean muscle. Now Bucky can’t stop staring at the stark lines of his collarbones and shoulders, the pointed crests of his ribcage.

“I know what you’re doing,” Steve says.

Bucky looks away. He thought that Steve was too preoccupied to notice his ogling, but maybe he was wrong.

Before he can figure out a lie, Steve says, “You’re losing on purpose to cheer me up. That’s nice and all, but I don’t want to win if it isn’t for real, okay?”

“Please. I like beating your ass too much to ever throw a game,” Bucky says.

He only means to push him playfully, but instead Bucky ends up grabbing a fistful of Steve’s sweaty blonde hair. Hanging on with too much force, yanking him closer, and there’s so much he wants that it’s overwhelming—

Bucky shoves him away as abruptly as he’d drawn him in. Brushing Steve off like he weighs nothing, and he can see that Steve’s irritated by being thrown around like that.

They go back to playing holdem, but Bucky’s concentration is utterly shot now. After losing seven hands in a row, he tosses his pair of tens to the discard pile and says, “I can’t think. It’s hotter than hell in here.”

That much is true, even if it hasn’t got jack to do with his poor poker playing. He tugs at his high collar and cusses. Sweat soaks through his shirt, clinging to his chest and under his arms, sticky against his wet skin. Right now Bucky doesn’t have the option of taking it off, because his back carries marks from a belt. Purple-edged stripes that he could never pass off as bruises from a fistfight.

“You whine about the heat every summer and still wear shirts like that.” Steve plucks at Bucky’s long sleeve and says, “Sometimes I think you just like having something to complain about.”

He has no way to know what he’s making fun of, but it doesn’t matter, because being mocked over _this_ hurts too much for Bucky to stand.

He pushes Steve—not hard, barely enough to budge him—and says, “Yeah, well we can’t all suffer in silence like a goddamn saint.”

Bucky wishes that Steve would lose his temper. Shove him, punch him, slap his face, _anything_. Because he needs Steve to lay hands on him in some way, and he doesn’t know how else to go about getting what he wants.

When Steve just frowns, looking more confused than offended, Bucky pushes him again. This time he uses enough force to make him fall against the mattress, and that sight—Steve pressed to the bed, flat on his back under Bucky’s hands—is almost too much. It must be just the right kind of manhandling to get under Steve’s skin, because he shoves at Bucky’s chest, and soon they’re rolling around on the bed, grappling and grabbing at each other.

Steve holds him down (only because Bucky allows it). “Stop pulling your punches,” he says.

“If I fought you for real, it’d be over in a minute.” He flips Steve to the other half of the trundle bed, then catches both of his skinny wrists in one hand. “There. Is that what you want?”

He wriggles and shouts, trying to break free, but he isn’t strong enough. They’re pressed so close together, and Steve struggles more fiercely the longer he’s pinned. Making frustrated noises, red-faced, angry. Bucky likes feeling his furious body twisting beneath him, half-naked and restrained, but it’s no good if Steve doesn’t enjoy it too.

(At least simple permission isn’t all that Bucky’s looking for, and there’s relief in the realization that he needs Steve to _want_ him. Because at least he isn’t as bad as his father, someone who takes without regard for anything besides acquiescence.)

He releases Steve’s wrists and waits for him to scramble away. But he only lies there, no longer fighting, breath short and eyes bright, feverish.

Bucky’s can’t speak, can barely think. He presses his lips to Steve’s cheek. It isn’t a real kiss, because he keeps his mouth closed. Other boys say that kisses don’t count unless you use your tongue, and Bucky thinks of all the things he could do to Steve without ever tasting him.

He grazes his lips along Steve’s jaw, his neck, the hollow at the base of his throat. Not-kissing his breastbone, then the warm place right over his heavy-beating heart. Bucky shudders, because he’s wanted this all summer (has maybe wanted something like this, if more innocent, since the day they met two years ago). Now he’s feeling the softness of Steve’s pale skin against his own mouth, smelling the salty scent of his sweat. Biting back every instinct he has to lick and bite, to really kiss the boy beneath his lips.

Steve grabs his hair, then pushes at his shoulder, as if he can’t decide whether he wants to yank Bucky closer or shove him off.

He looks up at Steve, who turns his face away. Eyes closed tight, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Narrow chest rising and falling with shallow, nervous breaths.

_This doesn’t count either_ , Bucky thinks, as he nuzzles the ridges of his ribcage.

Steve’s such a spare thing, small as the girls Bucky wishes he wanted instead. Hard lines and wiry muscle, all boy no matter how little he is, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t give to touch every sharp inch of him. Bucky works his way back up to Steve’s face, until his lips are brushing over his cheekbone, the corner of his closed mouth—

The grip on his hair tightens, and Steve makes a broken noise in the back of his throat. Some fearful sound that sends Bucky reeling backward.

They don’t talk and can’t meet each other’s eyes, but Bucky hears the rustle of clothes. He chances a peek when he thinks Steve isn’t looking, and he sees him pulling his shirt back on. Those steady, artist’s hands shake as he fumbles with the buttons.

“I’m no idiot,” Steve says, and now he’s looking right at Bucky. “I got some idea what you want…”

Bucky waits, and wishes, and realizes how much stupid hope he’s allowed himself to harbor.

Steve says, “I know what you want, but we can’t do that, okay?”

He springs off the bed, too angry to even be embarrassed. Because how can Steve claim to know what he wants when Bucky barely understands it himself?

“It was just a little roughhousing. Don’t make something out of nothing.” He keeps his voice light, almost casual, but Steve would have to be deaf to miss the warning there.

“Roughhousing?” Steve asks, and now he’s off the bed too, standing as straight-backed as he can manage. “That’s a crock and we both know it.”

Bucky pulls on his shoes, and because he can’t think of anything smarter, he just says, “Fuck off, Steve.”

“No! I’m sick of whatever’s going on with you.” He follows Bucky out of his bedroom, grabs him by the back of the shirt before he can reach the front door. “You’ve been a jackass all summer, and now you almost—you tried to—”

“Tried to what?” Bucky asks, turning around, and he doesn’t even know why he’s pushing Steve like this. “I tried to do _what_ , exactly?”

Steve slumps, like the righteous fury has gone out of him all at once. “Don’t make me say it,” he whispers.

Bucky draws himself up to his full height, towering over Steve. “You won’t say shit, because there’s nothing to say.”

For a moment, he forgets who he’s dealing with. That Steve can’t be intimidated by rough talk and doesn’t cower before bullies bigger than him, that he never backs down from a fight.

“So you didn’t try to kiss me?” Steve asks.

Bucky almost says that it wouldn’t have counted because their mouths were closed, but he realizes (too late) how thin an excuse that is.

The moment he lets his anger go, he feels so much shame that it steals his breath. If he wants to fix any of this mess, he should apologize, but he can’t force the words out.

This time, when Bucky turns to leave, Steve doesn’t stop him.

 

* * *

 

He hides in his room for a week, too humiliated to face Steve. Vows or no vows, Bucky knows he’s not any good for him. The things he wants—the things he tried to take—aren’t right, and whether you’re Jewish or Baptist, the word for what Bucky desires is _abomination_. Besides, even if he wasn’t wishing for unnatural things, what kind of friend treats their pal the way he’s treated Steve for months?

_A shit friend_ , he thinks. _That’s what kind._

He makes his way to the Rogers’s tenement ten days after his fight with Steve, but the courage he worked up goes to waste, because Sarah turns him away.

She gives him a small smile and says, “I don’t know what you two are arguing about, but I’m sure Steven will come around. Just give him a little more time.”

Bucky doesn’t come back, because Steve only deserves the best of things, the truest of friends. Pals who won’t try to bully him into taking touches he doesn’t want. He’ll be better off if Bucky keeps his distance and they never talk again.

That doesn’t make staying away any easier. It isn’t until they’re apart that Bucky understands how much he’s come to rely on Steve. He longs to hear his laugh, see his smile, smell the clean scent of cheap soap that clings to his body. Without Steve’s support, Bucky finds it harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning.

It takes forever to make it from dawn to sunset, but the weeks bleed into one another despite the long days, slipping by so fast.

 

* * *

 

He throws himself into classwork, football, and student council. Without Steve to spend time with, Bucky gets to know his schoolmates better, and by November he’s eating lunch with other boys from the council, his pastor’s son, cheerleaders, teammates, outgoing kids from the forensic league and shy kids from art class. Students who have nothing in common except for him, and when Bucky realizes that he’s the center of gravity that’s keeping such an odd collection of people held together, he isn’t sure how to feel about it.

The chaos of this dynamic is usually fun, but sometimes he just misses Steve.

Today, Matthew is arguing with Joan about her knee-length skirt, saying that it’s immodest for girls to wear such revealing clothes.

“So you think I should change how I dress because you can’t keep your eyes to yourself?” Joan asks.

Matthew’s weasel face screws up in a way that doesn’t do him any favors. “I’m not the one looking!” he says. “There are a lot of boys who do, though, and do you really want them staring at you like that?”

“How is it _her_ fault if _they_ stare?” Sally asks. She’s the most unflappable person that Bucky’s ever met, and she keeps her voice cool and even. Pointing out Matthew’s bullshit without giving him any excuse to turn his belligerence on her.

“Thank you!” Joan says, throwing up her hands.

Matthew opens his mouth, no doubt to quote whichever piece of Scripture will back up his idiocy, but Bucky claps him on the shoulder _hard_ and says, “Save the Bible study for Sunday.”

Jackson—the junior quarterback who was promoted to first-string this fall—says, “I don’t see why you’re complaining anyway. Joanie’s got gorgeous legs, and I for one, am thankful that she wears short skirts.”

Most of the other boys laugh, and Bucky offers a tight smile, but he doesn’t join in when Jackson starts joking about Joan’s tight sweaters.

She blushes and crosses her arms over her chest, looking even more uncomfortable than when Matthew was giving her grief. If Joan tells him to stop, he’ll only tease her worse, and if she walks away, half the boys at the table will catcall loud enough for the entire cafeteria to hear.

_Steve wouldn’t stand by and watch this_ , Bucky thinks. Of course, Steve would never be sitting at this table in the first place.

“All right, all right, cut it out.” Bucky grins when he says it, because if he chastises Jackson too seriously the boys will just turn on him. Like a pack of jackals, the bunch of them. “Or Matthew’s gonna start quoting Paul’s letters at you.”

“Excuse me for worrying about your eternal souls,” Matthew says, but he’s smiling now. “Well not Bucky’s. He’s a lost cause.”

He laughs along with the rest of his friends, but Bucky doesn’t find the accusation all that funny, because Matthew is more right than he knows.

 

* * *

 

That Sunday, Pastor Peterson stands up in front of the congregation and quotes Leviticus 20:13. His animated voice grows heated as he describes men lying with men as they should only lie with women. “They shall surely be put to death,” says Matthew’s father, and the power of those words seems to fill the quiet room, expanding to touch all of them. From the corner of his eye, Bucky can see his father nodding along.

“Their blood shall be upon them,” Pastor Peterson says, more softly now, and he closes his Bible with a sharp snap.

He goes on to talk about the sin their city is steeped in, the shameless perversions that fairy prostitutes and their buyers’ flaunt along the waterfront.

Bucky feels a flush creeping up the back of his neck. The weight of this sermon seems to settle across his own shoulders, like his pastor’s condemnations are aimed directly at him.

An hour later, he’s being dunked in a tank of cold water that’s supposed to wash him clean. Bucky holds his breath and silently beseeches a God he doesn’t believe in, praying for a new beginning.

_Fix me_ , he thinks. _Do whatever you got to do to make me right._

He feels dumb for that later, because as far as Bucky can tell, baptism doesn’t accomplish anything except giving him a cold that lasts through the first week of December.

He still dreams about Steve, still wishes he could see him, like a man mourning a missing piece of himself. Sarah once told him that amputees often hurt where their lost limbs used to be, and Bucky wonders if he’ll feel this phantom pain for the rest of his life. An ache in his heart where Steve belongs.

It’s foolish and pathetic, because they haven’t spoken since their fight last summer. If he had any pride, Bucky would forget about Steve and move on.

On Christmas morning, he wakes to the sounds of shattering china and his father’s raised voice, Ma’s screams and the crash of their ten-foot fir tree getting knocked to the floor. He finds Rebecca hiding in the hallway, her arms wrapped around Abbie and Deborah, who are crying into her nightgown.

She looks up at Bucky with dry eyes the exact color of their father’s and says, “Merry Christmas, James.”

His resilient, vicious, beautiful sister has given up, and that’s it, that’s the thing that breaks him.

Bucky runs. He pulls on trousers and boots, throws a coat over his pajama top, and leaves. Because if he doesn’t get out of here, he’s going to take the trench knife he keeps handy and stab his father with it.

He catches the first train to Red Hook and spends the whole ride telling himself that he’s a stupid, clingy boy. If he had an ounce of courage, he’d hurry back home as fast as he could. Defend his mother and sisters, no matter what.

Bucky makes it all the way to the ground floor of Steve’s tenement, where Mrs. Stilinski, the gossipy Polok landlady, stops him to say hello.

He’s only half-listening, his mind still back in Prospect Heights, no matter that he’s standing in Red Hook, until Mrs. Stilinski says, “Little Steven sure hasn’t done so well ever since you stopped coming around.”

The hard look she levels at Bucky would make him feel about an inch tall if wasn’t already falling apart. “I’m sure Steve’s just fine,” he says. “He doesn’t need anybody but himself.”

If he sounds bitter it’s because he is.

Mrs. Stilinski laughs. “I know what you mean. That boy may be small, but he’s tough as nails.”

“Then why are you worried about him?” Bucky asks.

“You know how he is. Steven can’t stay out of trouble,” she says, almost fondly. “And the rougher kids around here—well, without you to protect him, they’ve gotten braver.”

His breath catches in his chest, and for the first time since he stepped out his backdoor, Bucky can think of something besides the mess he left at home. He never considered this, that the boys who torture Steve would take his absence as an invitation to bully him worse.

He turns to leave, and Mrs. Stilinski asks, “Where are you going?”

“Got somewhere else to be,” Bucky says, and he hurries off before she can ask anymore nosy questions.

He checks the neighborhood bullies’ favorite haunts: the pharmacy, a burned out tenement on Haverford Way, the alley between the grocer and the butcher. Looking for somebody, anybody, who’s bothered Steve in the past.

Bucky’s ready to hurt someone, but there’s no hot wave of anger, no overwhelming rage that usually drives him beyond sense in moments like this. He’s clear-headed and oddly calm in his fury, almost numb. It’s snowing now, and he doesn’t feel much of anything except for the cold.

He finds Seamus on the sidewalk near his apartment, a shithole of a place not much nicer than Steve’s home. Sitting on his ass, shivering in a patchwork coat that probably saw better days before he was born.

Seamus used to seem like a big kid, but sometime in the last year Bucky’s grown taller and stronger than him. He looks almost small as Bucky drags him around the apartment and shoves him against the brick wall.

Seamus tries to get away, but he’s too weak. “What the hell, Barnes? I done nothing to you!”

“Sure you haven’t,” Bucky says. When he thinks of the brutal beating that Seamus and his buddies gave Steve last year, it’s easy to ignore the fear he’s radiating. Like an animal that knows it’s been caught by a meaner beast.

Bucky pulls the knife from his coat pocket and presses it to Seamus’s soft belly.

He starts shouting and cursing, a mix of panicked English and unintelligible Gaelic spilling out of his mouth. Seamus begs Bucky to let him go, swears he’ll never bother him again.

“It’s not me I’m here about,” Bucky says. That’s the truth (nearly), but there’s a lie mixed into it that he doesn’t want to think about. He feels a surge of strength, a heady, overpowering rush that erases his guilt, his fears, his powerlessness.

“Rogers?” Seamus asks, stammering like a moron. “I’ll leave him be, never talk to him again, never touch another hair on his fucking head! Swear on my da’s life.”

“Your father’s a piece of shit,” Bucky says, and he feels a prickle of unease, because he and Seamus have never been more alike than in this moment. “Swear on your mother.”

“On my mam’s life then!” Seamus says. “And I’ll make sure my friends leave him alone too!”

Bucky imagines putting his weight behind this knife, pressing just enough to cut through Seamus’s ratty, secondhand shirt and slice the stomach underneath. Give him a scar that’ll remind him of his promises.

_What’s wrong with me?_

Bucky shakes his head, sheathes the trench knife and pockets it, pats Seamus on his freckled cheek, and says, “If you ever find the balls to go back on your word, I’ll gut you like a goddamn fish. Do you understand that, or do I need to say it slower?”

Seamus scowls, but he’s smart enough to nod. “I got it.”

Bucky takes the train back to Prospect Heights, feeling far steadier than when he left this morning.

At home, Dad’s nowhere to be seen. The girls are gone too, and Bucky figures that Rebecca had the good sense to take Deb and Abbie next door to Mrs. Jenson’s.

He finds Ma curled up beside the toppled Christmas tree, blue bruises peeking through the torn sleeve of her festive, red dress. She’s not crying anymore, but her eyes are swollen and bloodshot, fair cheeks tear-stained. The carpet is littered with broken glass, shattered china and cracked ornaments.

Bucky offers his hand and says, “C’mon. Let’s get you up.”

Ma resists his efforts to help her to her feet, so Bucky lifts her into his arms. She’s heavier than a woman so slender has any right to be. Dead weight.

“It’s all right,” Bucky whispers. “You just rest. I’ll take care of everything, okay?”

She doesn’t answer. Maybe she doesn’t even hear him.

Bucky tucks Ma into bed, kisses her forehead, and goes downstairs to clean up the mess.

 

* * *

 

Steve comes by his house on New Year’s Day.

“Hey,” he says, and there’s the soft smile that Bucky’s missed so much.

He doesn’t know what to do, and can’t find his voice anyway, because Steve is _here_ , standing on his doorstep. Taller and in need of a haircut, but every bit as beautiful as Bucky remembers.

“Can I come in?” Steve asks.

It’s freezing outside, and his coat is too short in the sleeves, better suited for a little kid than a boy of fourteen, but Bucky pushes down his need to protect. “It might be best if you don’t,” he says, because letting Steve inside just to tell him to go away again would be too cruel for Bucky to stomach.

Steve’s small smile goes out like a light. “Oh. I see.”

“Yeah.” Bucky stares at the stoop. The concrete between his feet is much easier to look at than the hurt expression on Steve’s face.

“I’m sorry I told Ma not to let you in that day,” he says in a rush. “I just—I was still mad, Buck, and—and confused. I needed some time to think.”

“Some time?” Bucky tries to reign in his temper, but he’s never been any good at that. He stares somewhere over Steve’s shoulder, too weak to risk meeting his eyes. “It’s been five months.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t think you’d stay away so long!” Steve shouts.

Bucky steps outside, closes the front door, and grabs Steve by the arm. Pulls him around to the side of the house and says, “So what, you thought I’d just keep crawling back until you were ready to talk to me again?”

“No! Maybe? I don’t know.” Steve wraps his arms around himself, shivering. “I was mad that you’d been such a jerk all summer, and mad that you tried to—”

He stops, mouth still open, like what he wants to say is too dirty to speak out loud. It is, Bucky supposes.

“Well, that you did what you did,” Steve says, blushing bright pink. “And I figured it wouldn’t be right for me to go to you. I wasn’t ready to talk when you tried, but then you never came back…”

He’s not wrong about any of this, has every right to be angry, and the only thing Bucky can think to ask is, “Why are you here?”

“Because this isn’t some fairweather friendship,” Steve says. He looks up at Bucky, earnestness written all over his face. “We’re supposed to be there for each other for—till the end of the line.”

That’s all it takes. Steve says six short words, and his resolve crumbles. Half a year’s determination to do the right thing, collapsed in a moment, and Bucky’s never been so ready to give up.

He pulls Steve into a hug that’s too real, too close. It feels like he’s burning everywhere they touch, even through the layers of their clothes. Five months might as well have been fifty years, and Bucky didn’t understand until this moment just how starved he’s been. So desperate to touch this boy that he’s been aching with the need of it since their fight.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “I’m so sorry, Steve. I should never have done that—”

“Shut up.” Steve clings to him, buries his face against Bucky’s shoulder, and it’s such a sweet surprise that he’s as affectionate, as tactile as ever. “I don’t care.”

Bucky feels so relieved he could cry, because their friendship survived, he didn’t ruin anything, and they’re going to be okay.

“Don’t you leave me again,” Steve whispers.

“Never,” Bucky says. He nuzzles the top of Steve’s head, breathing in the comforting scent of his hair. Happy for the first time in months. “Not if I can help it.”


	5. BUCKY: 1.5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this chapter focuses very closely on Bucky's family, and particularly the abusive dynamics within it, I want to add an extra content warning for domestic violence and child abuse.

## 1.5

#### "Our love is a forest fire and we are the little things that live in the trees."

#### \- Joey Comeau -

∞

#####  **February to July 1933**

 

 

Easter has always been Bucky’s least favorite holiday. His parents fight every Good Friday, like they’re celebrating some sort of hackneyed anniversary, and he hates missing school just to endure more church. Pastor Peterson derides Catholics and Jews with greater vigor throughout the spring months, which annoys Bucky on Steve’s behalf as much as his own.

Last year he spent Easter night watching Ma throw his father’s clothes out onto the street. Dad hadn’t liked that one bit, and he made Rebecca collect his things while he dealt with their mother.

Bucky figures that it can’t get any worse this year, but then Dad says Aunt Jenny and Uncle Don will be visiting. He announces this at the dinner table, while they’re in the middle of eating dessert. Bucky doesn’t mind this, because he might have sworn if his mouth wasn’t full of chocolate cake.

“Is Oliver coming too?” Deborah asks.

Rebecca says, “No, they’re just gonna leave him in Philadelphia.”

“Well I don’t know! Last time Aunt Jenny stayed with us he was at some ski resort with his boarding school friends.” Deborah stabs her cake like it personally wronged her.

“Oliver will be coming too,” Dad says. “Don insists on staying in Manhattan, but they’ll go to church with us, and we’re eating Easter brunch together.”

Ma takes a long drink of her wine, then says, “Oh, joy.”

“Winifred,” Dad says, and now there’s a cold note in his voice. A warning tone that always makes the hair on the back of Bucky’s neck stand up.

“What?” Ma asks. “Can’t I express how happy I am to see your sister?”

She tilts up her chin and smiles, like she isn’t walking on thin ice right now.

It isn’t fair, considering all that Dad puts her through, but if Ma goads him into a fight right at the dinner table, putting the girls in his warpath, Bucky might not even care if he hits her.

Dad throws his napkin on the table hard enough that Abbie flinches.

“Do you really want to do this right now?” he asks. “In front of the children?”

Ma shrugs. “So _now_ you’re worried about the children? That’s a nice change of pace, sweetheart.”

Bucky stares at the misshapen slice of cake on his mother’s fine bone china. The icing looks too shiny under the dining room lights, like it could melt off any second. He picks out the details in the chocolate so that he doesn’t have to listen to his parents, but he still hears them.

“Don’t push me, Win. I’m not asking for much here, but you _will_ be polite to Jenny through this visit or so help me--”

“I’ll be civil as long as she returns that courtesy,” Ma says. “But if she calls me a kike again I’m going to slap her harder than your father ever did.”

Bucky looks up, then wishes he hadn’t, because his father is shaking all over, his expression thunderous. For once, it’s hard to blame him for losing his temper. If anybody ever said such a thing about one of Bucky’s sisters he’d knock them into next week.

Dad just sits there, trembling and red-faced with his jaw clenched, while Bucky and his sisters wait to see whether he’ll go outside to walk it off or drag Ma upstairs by her hair. Deborah and Abbie keep perfectly still, like they’re afraid to breathe. Their father grips the edge of the table until his knuckles go white, but their mother just keeps drinking her wine, looking utterly unconcerned.

It should make Bucky more nervous, because things always turn out worse if you don’t beg, if you don’t promise to do better. Dad hates it when his anger runs up against a wall of pride, and it draws out his meanest streak. But Bucky is sick of walking on eggshells to appease his rotten family, and he’s not doing it for another minute tonight.

“Can’t we have one peaceful fucking dinner in this house?” he asks. “Is that too much to ask for?”

Deborah gasps, Abbie starts crying, and Rebecca rolls her eyes. At least Dad looks more surprised than angry. Maybe he’s too shocked to remember how furious he is with his wife.

His mother smiles at him, like she’s been waiting for the day that he’d finally face his father’s fury instead of running away from it.

Maybe Dad has been waiting for that too, because he waves his hand at Bucky, then the girls. “Go find something to do. All of you.”

They rush out of the dining room, but Bucky hovers by the door. His father might look calmer, but that doesn’t always mean he’s gotten a handle on his temper, and Ma pushed his buttons harder tonight than she has in awhile.

There’s nothing but silence for a few minutes, stretching so thin that Bucky leans closer to the keyhole, in case they’re talking and he missed it.

Then he hears Dad speak. “I know that you don’t like Jenny, but she’s the only family I’ve got that doesn’t hate me. So it would be nice if you’d put up with her for a few days.”

Ma says, “Don’t be silly. Your mother loves you.”

The quiet that follows is thick with what his mother _didn’t_ say, and what it means--that none of their children loves Dad and neither does she. It’s a crock of shit, definitely where Ma is concerned, and probably the girls too, but Bucky isn’t sure that his father knows that.

His heart pounds, beating so fast that he’s lightheaded, but nothing could drag him away from this door. Even if his mother’s rebellion is just about the stupidest thing he’s ever witnessed, Bucky can’t help but admire her courage.

He’s still afraid that his father might hit her, but all he hears is Dad saying, “Go upstairs. Now.”

“No.”

There’s some kind of scuffle, not loud enough to be concerning. It sounds more like a fight for control rather than real violence. Even though that’s a relief, Bucky is uncomfortably reminded of the way he roughhouses with Steve when his friend gets too mouthy for his liking.

Dad says, “I swear to God, if you make me throw you over my shoulder, you won’t like what happens--”

His mother laughs. “Like I haven’t heard that before.”

Bucky draws away from the door, because there’s nothing to worry about now. Half of his parents’ fights end in bruises, but the rest of their arguments turn into flirting, which turns into things that Bucky would rather not hear.

He finds Rebecca waiting at the foot of the staircase. Bucky points up to the second floor where their parents’ bedroom is.

“You might want to find somewhere else to linger,” he says. “They’ll be heading this way soon.”

Rebecca wrinkles her nose, makes an offended noise, and follows Bucky out the backdoor. They sit on the porch steps together, watching a late winter storm blanket their neatly manicured lawn with snow.

“They’re gonna be like this forever, aren’t they?” Bucky asks.

“Of course,” Rebecca says. “People don’t change, James.” 

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s sixteenth birthday falls on a Friday, and Steve convinces him to skip school so they can celebrate it together. Since Sarah is at work, they lounge on the fire escape at Steve’s apartment, drinking orange Nehi. The sky is pure blue, not a cloud in sight, and the bright sunlight fends off the early March chill. It’s one of about five perfect days that Brooklyn sees in a year, and Bucky is thankful for it.

He’s less thankful for Aunt Jenny’s visit, which looms closer every day. He bitches about it while they lounge on the fire escape, more like lazy cats than the half-grown boys they are.

“She can’t be _that_ bad,” Steve says. “You’ve never even mentioned your aunt before today.”

Bucky pokes Steve’s side and says, “That’s because she and Uncle Don haven’t visited since before I met you, and I try to forget they exist.”

Steve laughs, nudges Bucky with his elbow, and says, “You always complain about your family, Buck, but they don’t seem so bad to me.”

He takes a long swallow of his soda to keep from saying something bitter.

Steve’s smile softens. Then he leans against Bucky’s side and turns so that his cheek rests against his shoulder, almost nuzzling. They’re both stripped down to their trousers and undershirts, soaking up the afternoon sunlight, and Bucky can feel the warm press of Steve’s lips against his bare skin. Soft and damp, probably from the orange soda that Bucky bought him.

The feeling of Steve’s mouth against his shoulder sends a rippling shiver down Bucky’s spine. He tries to smother it by reminding himself of what happened when he tried to take more than Steve wanted to give.

_It doesn’t mean anything_ , Bucky thinks. Steve is just friendly, a boy too caring for his own good, and he likes to be close to the people he loves.

“Any chance I could ditch my folks and go to an Easter service with you?” he asks.

Steve’s laughter falls warm across his shoulder. “Are you serious? Do you have any idea how long Mass lasts at a Catholic church on Easter Sunday?”

“It could last until Christmas and I’d still rather be with you,” Bucky says.

He knows he said the wrong thing when Steve pulls away, drinks the last of his soda, and stands. He won’t quite look at Bucky as he says, “C’mon, let’s get outta here. We should do something fun before we get caught playing hooky.”

Steve’s disinterest snuffs out the sensation tingling under his skin better than anything else ever could.

“Sure,” Bucky says. “Whatever you want.”

 

* * *

 

Aunt Jenny looks like a smaller, feminized version of his father. She has the same brown hair and pointed features, and her dark eyes seem to notice everything, just like Dad’s. Uncle Don is paunchy, wrinkled, and grey. He’s almost seventy, and Bucky has heard his mother say, with obvious relish, that the only way Aunt Jenny could catch a man so rich was by luring him to the altar when she was young. Poor Oliver inherited his father’s looks, but Bucky would feel worse for him if he wasn’t such an entitled brat.

The first thing Aunt Jenny does is throw herself into Dad’s arms. When she tucks her head against his shoulder it reminds Bucky of the way Deborah and Abbie hug him when they want protection.

When she finally lets go, Aunt Jenny embraces each of the girls in turn, from smallest to tallest, then pretends to do a double-take when she looks up at Bucky.

“Good Lord, James, you’re almost as tall as your father. And growing up to be so handsome.”

“Thank you,” Ma says, with a smile sweet enough to rot teeth. “Everyone always remarks on how much Bucky favors me.”

Aunt Jenny laughs. “Do you still call him by that nickname? Don’t you think it’s a little childish for a boy his age?”

“Jesus, here we go,” Rebecca mutters.

Dad interrupts the conversation before it can turn into a fight by asking Oliver whether he’s still planning to apply to Harvard.

“Definitely,” Oliver says. “I think I’ve got a good shot at being accepted, between my grades and that letter you promised me. I can still count on that, can’t I?”

Dad claps Oliver on the back. “Of course. My alma mater would be lucky to have you.”

Sometimes Bucky wonders if his father would get along better with any boy on earth besides his own son.

The next few days are more peaceful than he expected, but there’s resentment bubbling beneath the surface of their get-togethers, ready to boil over at anytime.

Dad takes off work to entertain his sister and her family, which means they all drive to Manhattan every day for trips to the MET, the Statue of Liberty, the Lyceum Theatre. Bucky would rather see a new picture with Steve than sit through a three-hundred-year-old play, but at least it keeps his family quiet.

On Saturday night they have dinner at The Palm, and Bucky orders lobster that he doesn’t even want, just to squander his father’s money. Dad won’t dare to chastise him in front of Aunt Jenny, and complaining about the cost would only make him look cheap to Uncle Don.

Halfway through dessert, Oliver asks Bucky how school is going. He ignores the question while he pokes his creme brulee, breaking through the caramelized crust to fiddle with the custard underneath. It smells delicious, but tonight he’s more committed to spiting his father than stuffing his belly. (It does prick at Bucky’s conscience a little, though, to waste good food when half the city has to stand in soup lines for their meals.)

“Your cousin asked you something,” Dad says.

Bucky pats his stomach. “Sorry, I’m not feeling real talkative. Probably too full.”

His mother coughs behind her hand, and Bucky would bet a hundred dollars that she’s covering up laughter.

Then Uncle Don compliments Ma’s dress--a black, low-necked gown that’s far less conservative than her usual style.

“I’m surprised this old thing still fits, honestly. I don’t think I’ve worn it since before Bucky was born,” Ma says.

Uncle Don grins so widely that it somehow makes him look less friendly. “I swear you haven’t aged a day since I met you, darling. If you weren’t such a good Christian woman I’d think you were making deals with the devil.”

Ma’s smile falters, but she hitches it back into place quick enough. “Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, Don. I don’t know how Jenny believes a word you say.”

She fidgets with her necklace, and Uncle Don’s gaze drops a little lower, glancing at her chest in a way that’s not very appropriate for a brother-in-law. Bucky doesn’t let it bother him much, though, because his mother is fishing for compliments, and each one she reels in is pissing off Dad and Aunt Jenny something awful.

“It’s a nice dress, but it does look a bit threadbare,” Aunt Jenny says.

Dad tries to cup the back of Ma’s neck, but she leans far enough away from him that he only ends up grasping thin air.

Oliver shifts the discussion back to his Harvard aspirations with a forced, manic air that makes Bucky smile.

When the check comes, Aunt Jenny says, “Well this has been a wonderful meal. Thank you for spoiling us so much, George.”

“It’s nothing,” Dad says.

Bucky fidgets with the tablecloth, considering whether or not he should stir shit any worse. _Why not?_ he thinks. They’re already gonna have hell to pay tonight.

“If it’s nothing then why don’t you ever take us to places like this?” Bucky asks.

Ma looks at Dad with wide, attentive eyes, like she’s genuinely curious about his answer. “That is an excellent question,” she says.

Bucky has never seen his father turn so red, and that alone is worth the punishment they’re going to face once they’re behind closed doors.

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s back stings every time he moves. He knows that Ma has to be hurting worse, but she sits perfectly poised, still as a porcelain doll throughout Pastor Peterson’s service. Every time Dad touches her (and he touches her often) her lips curve into a small, satisfied smile.

Bucky isn’t sure why Ma seems so agreeable after days of defiance, but it all starts to make sense at brunch.

Dad usually handles Aunt Jenny like she’s made of glass, so much gentler than he bothers to with anyone else. And he’s waited on her hand and foot all week, giving her gifts and taking her wherever she wanted to go, treating her like a princess.

Not today. Now Dad can’t take his eyes off of his wife. He pulls out Ma’s chair for her, whispers to her in a sweet-tempered voice, and even helps her cook. Whenever he gets the chance, he presses chaste kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her shoulder. Overnight his father has turned tender, besotted, and overprotective, so lovesick that it turns Bucky’s stomach.

He stands outside the kitchen with Rebecca, watching their parents dance to music only they can hear. It might be charming if Ma didn’t move so gingerly, slowed down by the bruises Dad gave her. If they weren’t looking at each other like last night didn’t even happen, all the manipulation and violence swept under the rug.

Rebecca pulls him away from the kitchen. They end up lingering in the third floor hallway, sitting with their backs against the wall.

“I can’t figure out which one of them I’m more disgusted with,” Bucky says.

Rebecca shakes her head. “Definitely Ma. Her stupid games got you hurt too.”

Bucky has to laugh. “Since when do you care about that?”

Rebecca doesn’t answer for a long time, and she sounds almost ashamed when she finally says, “I always care. Just sometimes you make me so mad that I don’t care enough.”

Ma calls them down to the dining room a few minutes later. Some tension lingers among them, leftover from last night’s disastrous dinner, but it gets drowned out by his parents’ good mood. They tell jokes and funny stories, trading casual touches throughout the whole meal. Aunt Jenny sends a few subtle barbs in Ma’s direction, but they go ignored, and nothing she says can recapture Dad’s attention. His mother isn’t gauche enough to preen, but she doesn’t have to.

Bucky suddenly sees, more clearly than he ever has, why Ma and Aunt Jenny despise each other so much: his mother hates that, even though Dad lays hands on her, he never fails to treat his sister with kid gloves; and Aunt Jenny can’t stand being loved second-best by the brother she worships.

It’s hard to fault her for that. Bucky knows better than anyone how lonely it can be if you’re lost in orbit around his parents’ insular world. No matter if they’re kissing or fighting fit to bring the house down, it’s plain as day that they don’t love anyone more than they love each other.

 

* * *

 

His parents are still honeymooning the next time Steve spends the night, and they’re so obnoxious that Bucky can barely stand to be in the same room with them. Steve won’t shut up about how nice it is that his parents are still happy together after twenty years of marriage.

“If you like ‘em so much we should trade. I’ll take your mother over mine any day.”

Steve gives him a funny look. “All right, I get it, you don’t want to talk about your folks. No reason to be a jerk when you could’ve just told me.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “I’m fed up with them right now. I swear it’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Then don’t take it out on me,” Steve says. He’s smiling, though, so Bucky figures he didn’t screw up too badly this time.

Gross as it is to watch, he thinks there might something to learn from his parents’ renewed intimacy. Flirting with Uncle Don wasn’t a particularly fair or faithful way for Ma to regain Dad’s affection, but when Bucky considers the results, he can’t argue against the motivating power of jealousy.

So when Jackson Parker’s Independence Day party rolls around, Bucky says he’ll be there, and he asks Patsy Wells to go with him.

Sally would’ve been a good date, because she’s smart as a whip, too collected to lose her patience when he acts like an idiot, and pretty in the delicate way that Bucky appreciates most. The whole point is to get under Steve’s skin, though, and Patsy is perfect for that. She’s gorgeous and confident in her knowledge of it, as clever as she is daring. And from what he’s heard, Patsy is a little fast. It isn’t like she goes to bed with just anyone, but she’s bold enough to have fun with a fella who treats her right. That’s a policy Bucky would have to respect even if he didn’t have plans to reap any benefit from it.

The night before the party, Bucky takes Steve to the theater. He’s more interested in _King Kong_ than he expected to be, but he hates the end. Bucky didn’t bargain for caring about a lonely, out-of-place creature like Kong, and it hits him in the gut when he realizes that he’s watching a fairy tale instead of a monster thriller.

_It was beauty killed the beast_. That stupid line keeps popping into his head, over and over again, and he can’t figure out why.

After the movie, he treats Steve to milkshakes at their favorite diner. Strawberry for Steve, chocolate for Bucky, but it doesn’t matter which one belongs to who, because they share. He tries not to think about the fact that he and Steve are putting their mouths on each other’s straws. Then he wonders if Steve is thinking about it.

Probably not. It doesn’t look like Steve is worried about much except for stealing the last of the chocolate shake. Which he does while Bucky is staring at him like a moron.

“I think I’m gonna make time with Patsy tomorrow,” he says. “She’s a looker, and Jackson told me she’s up for just about anything if you give her a good time.”

Steve stares at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging half-open. “What? You don’t mean you’re gonna…”

“Go all the way?” Bucky asks. “Yeah, sure, if she likes me enough to give it a go.”

“Isn’t this your first date?”

Bucky fidgets with his napkin, folding and unfolding it, tearing at the flimsy edges. “It’s not like I’m gonna marry her.”

“But you haven’t--I mean you never told me--” Steve scrubs a hand over his face and pitches his voice lower when he asks, “I thought you’d never even kissed anybody. I mean, not really.”

Since they started talking again, this is the closest that Steve has come to bringing up the kiss that didn’t happen last year.

Bucky ducks his head, rubs at the back of his neck, and says, “Nah, I haven’t done any kissing, but how hard can it be if Paulie Fiscella keeps finding dates? He’s dumber than a box of rocks, and girls keep going to the dance hall with him.”

Steve still looks wary when he says, “That’s fair I guess.”

It’s probably nothing more than reasonable worry on behalf of a friend, but Steve is scowling, and Bucky has to find out for sure.

“C’mon, stop making that face,” Bucky says. “If I didn't know better, I’d think you were judging me.”

“I don’t care what good-time girl you screw,” Steve says hotly.

It isn’t like him to call a dame he’s never met something so mean, and Bucky thinks, _Maybe_. Maybe his hopes aren’t as off-base as Steve led him to believe.

“I don’t want you to get mixed up with some girl you barely know,” Steve says. “What if she turns out to be mean? It’s your first time. It--well it shouldn’t be with somebody mean.”

Bucky can feel his heart in his throat, but he keeps his composure. “You should come with me to the party. It’s your birthday tomorrow anyway, and it’ll give you a chance to meet Patsy. She’s a real sweetheart, Steve. You’ll love her as soon as you talk to her.”

The frown line between Steve’s eyebrows deepens, but he shrugs and says, “Okay. I guess that’s not such a bad idea.”

Bucky can’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's comments and kudos are incredibly encouraging, and I'm very thankful to anyone who takes the time to give me feedback. I hate that it took so long to update this fic, but I have half of Chapter 1.6 written already, so hopefully it won't take long to finish it!
> 
> Fun fact: I actually wrote the majority of this chapter over a week ago, and I've been editing since then. Until one of my betas pointed it out, I didn't even realize that I would be posting a chapter that takes place around Easter 1933 on actual Easter Sunday 2017. 
> 
> And speaking of betas, I must thank DeepPoeticGirl and ReyloTrashCompactor for their invaluable input on this story. You ladies make everything I write so much better.


	6. BUCKY: 1.6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know why I added a dubcon tag, the details (which will spoil some aspects of this chapter) are in the end notes.
> 
> In case you're curious, ReyloTrashCompactor and deeppoeticgirl are the best duo of betas a girl could ask for.

## 1.6

#### "I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it."

#### \- Sylvia Plath -

∞

#####  **July 1933 to March 1934**

 

 

Patsy sure pulled out all the stops for their date. Her hair falls to her shoulders in glossy finger curls, and by the light of the bonfire, it looks more red than chestnut. There’s nothing improper about her dress, but it fits so closely to her curves that she looks a little scandalous anyway.

Before he can introduce her to Steve, she walks right up to him and says, “Hi. I’m Patricia, but everybody calls me Patsy.”

Steve blushes up to his hairline and stares at his feet as he says hello. His shyness might be borne from respect more than nerves, though, because Patsy is a half-foot taller than Steve--only a few inches shorter than Bucky--which puts his eyeline at her chest.

Bucky looks her up and down, then says, “Jesus. I feel downright homely next to you.”

Patsy hooks her arm through his, smiling. She says, “Playing modest doesn’t suit you. You know you’re the best-looking fella in school.”

Bucky kisses her cheek and whispers, “If you say so, doll.”

“Getting fresh already, James?”

Bucky grins, because this is easy, this is _fun_. Teasing, telling a girl how beautiful she is, soaking up praise and giving it back.

He and Patsy take seats around the fire, but Steve lingers at the treeline, fidgeting with the cap of his unopened Coke bottle.

Bucky asks Patsy, “D’you mind if I pay some attention to Steve? He’s sort of a wallflower, and this is the first time he’s met any of my school friends.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “He’s your best pal, isn’t he?”

Bucky is liking Patsy more by the minute.

“Steve!” he shouts. “Get your ass over here. I want you to meet some people.”

He tells Steve to sit on Patsy’s other side, so that they’ll have a chance to chat and get to know each other.

Introductions go easier than Bucky expected. Sally is nice, if somewhat cool, but that’s the way she is with everyone. Joan talks to Steve like he’s her adorable baby brother, the way girls often do, and even though Steve bristles at it, he’s so courteous that nobody but Bucky notices. His teammates try to rib Steve about being scrawny, but he shrugs it off with that uncompromising, unapologetic air that either cows other boys or infuriates them. Maybe because he’s Bucky’s friend, they let it go.

“So how’d you meet James?” Joan asks. “He said you don’t live in our neighborhood.”

That’s a euphemistic way of asking, _How did a poor kid like you meet someone like us?_

Joan is too nice to stare, but there’s no way she hasn’t noticed the state of Steve’s clothes: his threadbare shirt and scuffed shoes and the pants that are only held up by the same battered belt he’s been wearing since he was twelve.

“He kinda saw me fighting some bullies and jumped in,” Steve says. He looks sheepish but not embarrassed.

Bucky grins, remembering how fearless Steve was that day, proud even with a bloody mouth and a black eye. “I broke Seamus Rourke’s ugly nose for you, and you weren’t grateful at all.”

“I didn’t need your help,” Steve says, blithe and certain. “Still don’t.”

Bucky flips him the bird. “Well then what are you keeping me around for?”

“It sure isn’t your sparkling wit,” Steve says.

Everybody laughs, and the sound startles Bucky. There for a moment he forgot that he was sitting in a circle of friends. It felt so much like the time he and Steve spend together alone, and now Bucky wishes they were at Steve’s apartment in Red Hook, just the two of them.

Patsy leans close and tucks her face into the curve of his neck. Bucky turns toward her so that he can kiss her forehead, her temple, the highest point of her cheek.

He glances over the top of Patsy’s head to see if Steve is watching, but he’s staring at the fire, narrow jaw set in a hard line.

Bucky says, “I must be the luckiest guy in New York, to get a girl like you to go on a date with me.”

It’s not a lie. Patsy is a knockout, and she’s funny and kind. Smart too, even though most boys seem to overlook that. Bucky really is having a great time with her, and if this date wasn’t futile from the start, he’d probably want to see her again. But Steve already owns the best and worst parts of him, might as well have his name printed on Bucky’s goddamn heart.

So he makes a show of holding Patsy’s hand, whispering things in her ear that make her blush and laugh, running his fingers through her hair. He looks up as often as he dares, and it sends a bolt of shivering heat through him when he catches Steve stealing glances of his own.

Phil--who’s an asshole on the football field and not much better off of it--shakes his head at Bucky. He says, “Never would’ve taken you for a sap, Seventeen. Cuddling over there, all moon-eyed.”

Bucky shrugs. “If having the sweetest girl in Brooklyn on my arm makes me a sap, then I guess that’s what I am.”

Patsy looks pretty pleased with that answer.

Jackson makes a disappointed face, but he still offers Bucky a swig from his bottle of hooch.

“How’d you get your hands on that?” Sally asks. She sounds intrigued, if not particularly impressed.

Jackson says, “Prohibition doesn’t mean much when your father owns half the speakeasies in Brooklyn.”

Sally hums, crosses her long legs, and says, “Well I hope he has a backup business. Temperance is going out of vogue, and the Eighteenth Amendment is going with it.”

“You think so?” Steve asks.

Sally tilts her head to the side, looking at Steve like he’s a curious creature. “You don’t?” she asks.

“Well, eventually, yeah.” Steve glances around. Everyone is watching him, probably because no one challenges Sally on much.

He sits up straighter, of course he does, then says, “The teetotalers have had their way for most of our lives. They’re fighting for what they believe is right--even though there’s nothing _right_ about taking people’s choices away--and they’re winning. I don’t see why they’d give up now.”

Sally looks like she has a rebuttal on the tip of her tongue, but Jackson says, “Jeez, that’s enough political talk. You better give me back the booze, Seventeen. I’m not drunk enough for this.”

Bucky hands over the bottle, then looks pointedly between Steve and Sally. “Seriously, you two, this is supposed to be a party.”

Talk turns to the impending school year, but Bucky loses the thread of conversation as he and Patsy tangle their fingers together and whisper in each other’s ears. Bucky actually hasn’t been looking at Steve for quite awhile when he hears him stand up. Steve storms off into the woods, the set of his shoulders rigid, his stride as forceful as his skinny legs and crooked back will allow for.

Bucky’s pulse thumps in his ears, and he can feel it through every inch of his body. It’s a struggle not to smile.

“Goddammit,” he says. “I oughta find out what his problem is.”

Patsy nods. “Go ahead. I hope he’s all right.”

Bucky hurries into the woods, heading in the direction that Steve disappeared. It takes a few minutes to find him, but Bucky doesn’t think he really wanted to hide, because he’s sitting on a fallen log, kicking at the dirt.

Bucky walks closer, until he’s right in front of Steve. If he stands up, they’ll be touching.

“What are you sulking about?” he asks.

Steve kicks at the ground harder, and his mouth flattens into a stubborn frown.

He says, “I’m not sulking. I’m mad because last night you said Patsy didn’t mean anything to you, and now you’re acting like you’re gonna marry her someday. It isn’t fair to treat her like that.”

Steve is still staring at the ground, head bowed.

Bucky takes a deep breath and reminds himself that nobody ever got what they wanted by being a coward.

“Is that really it?” he asks. “‘Cause you sound kinda jealous, Steve.”

“What? No!” Steve says.

He jumps to his feet, then stumbles around Bucky, forcing some distance between them. Steve keeps shaking his head, saying, “No that’s not--I’m not like that.”

Bucky bites his lip, watching the way Steve’s gaze flits from his shirtfront to the trees to the overgrown grass all around them.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” Bucky asks.

Steve hunches his shoulders and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s always been frail of body, but he’s so strong-willed and hard-headed that he never seems small in the ways that matter; he looks small now.

And that isn’t right, because Bucky has never wanted to be the thing that makes Steve feel as weak as the world has tried to make him.

Bucky steps closer, approaching as slowly as he can bear to. When he’s within arm’s length, he reaches--

Steve knocks his hand aside. “I thought we worked this out. I thought you understood that I don’t wanna--Jesus, I like _girls_.”

“I like girls too,” Bucky says quickly, because he does. He likes girls fine--just not nearly as much as he likes Steve.

“Okay. Then quit looking at me like you expect something,” Steve says. “Stop putting on a show just to get a reaction out of me. It’s not making me jealous. It’s making me angry.”

He knows everything about Steve: the sound of his barely-uneven footsteps, the exact curvature of his spine, the constellation of freckles scattered across his shoulders. Bucky knows everything about Steve, including the stiff, wooden quality his voice takes on when he’s lying.

“You hated seeing me with Patsy, and fairness doesn’t have a damn thing to do with it. You’re just too chickenshit to admit the truth,” Bucky says.

Steve blushes cherry red, and the color spreads down his throat, vanishes under the collar of his shirt.

“I’m not afraid,” he says. “I just know what I want, and you--you aren’t it.”

Bucky reels backward, feeling almost numb until the pain hits. It hurts everywhere, hurts so much that it seems impossible that he could still be standing, still be breathing, when a piece of him has been brought to light and stripped bare.

“Well that’s good, ‘cause I don’t want you either!” Bucky shouts.

Steve’s expression hardens with the pure, implacable self-righteousness that Bucky hates.

He says, “You’re always staring at me when you think I don’t notice. And you touch me all the time, Bucky. More than friends should.”

He can’t break down in front of Steve, not now, but his voice quivers when he says, “That isn’t fair. That isn’t fair, and you know it.”

“Maybe not, but it’s true.”

Quick as a switch flipping, the ache in Bucky’s throat eases, and it feels like the heat behind his eyes has infected his whole body. That there’s fire in his veins, burning through all his love.

He walks closer, crowds Steve against a tree, and says, “Tell me something: where do you keep all your pictures of me? You draw me every chance you get--when I’m reading, napping, eating a goddamn apple. So where are they, Stevie?”

“Shut up!”

Steve pushes him, but even with all his strength, he has no chance of moving Bucky if he doesn’t want to be moved.

Bucky braces his arm over Steve’s head, then hunches down until they’re almost eye to eye. He grins, feeling triumphant, feeling feral.

“You got all those sketches squirreled away somewhere?” he asks. “Are you hiding ‘em so your ma doesn’t find out how much you like looking at me? Is that it?”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, scowling and blushing, refusing to shrink back. Then he slips away, going around Bucky instead of past him.

“You tell yourself whatever you need to. I’m outta here,” Steve says.

“Where the hell are you going?” Bucky asks.

Steve points toward the clearing where Patsy and all of Bucky’s friends are still sitting. “Screw her or don’t,” he says. “See if I care.”

 

* * *

 

Patsy is a smart girl, and she figures out pretty quick that Bucky doesn’t have any experience. She’s happy to take the reins, to teach him how to kiss, how to touch, how to move when she moves, so that their bodies slide along each other’s in a graceful rhythm.

When she sucks him, Bucky bites his knuckles to keep from whimpering. It’s like he can feel every nerve in his body. It’s so much, too much, not enough. He hasn’t been this hard since he jerked off next to Steve--

No. He can’t think about Steve, not right now.

Bucky grabs Patsy’s hair, runs his fingers through it until her curls lose their perfect shape and glossy shine. Her red mouth stretches around his cock, sliding up, sliding down, leaving smudges of lipstick on his skin. Everything Patsy put together so carefully is coming apart, and Bucky likes the sight of her this way, disheveled and sloppy.

Her hair is soft, her tongue is hot, and she makes a muffled, choked noise when she takes him deep. Everything about her is beautiful, and boy does she know what she’s doing. Somehow it’s still not what he expected or hoped for, because every time Bucky opens his eyes and really looks at her--the plush curves of her breasts and hips, the pouty mouth wrapped around him--his focus starts to drift. Like he isn’t feeling this pleasure himself; like he’s watching some other fella getting a suckjob from a gorgeous girl.

“Stop,” Bucky says. “I don’t think I can take much more of that.”

Patsy sits up and asks, “Do you have a rubber?”

He digs around his pocket for one of the condoms he bought yesterday. (A single box for the price of twenty cents and a judgemental glare from the pharmacist.)

“This good?” he asks.

Patsy plucks the packet from his hand, opens it, and rolls the rubber down his cock without fanfare.

Bucky already feels like he’s being touched through a veil, that there’s something standing between his body and the pleasure he can’t quite find, and the condom makes it worse.

“You need to get me wet, or it won’t be any good,” Patsy says. “You know how to do that?”

Bucky says, “I’ve got some ideas, but a little direction wouldn’t hurt.”

Patsy straddles his waist, leans down to kiss his Adam’s apple, and says, “Well lucky for you, I’m great at giving directions.”

She shows him which spots to touch between her legs, how to tease and take her apart. Diligence helps, and Bucky has always been good with his hands. He listens to Patsy, does everything she tells him to do exactly as she tells him to do it. This is better, feeling her sex quiver around his fingers as she rocks against him, as she breathes his name.

(She knows what she wants too, and it’s _him_.)

Patsy is so quiet when she comes that he isn’t sure that it happened until she starts kissing him again, wild and a little sloppy now, so much less practiced than before.

“That was so good,” she whispers. “You did so good, James.”

Bucky sits up, wraps his arms around Patsy’s waist, and hides his face against her shoulder. He’s not as hard as before, and he doesn’t want her to notice, to think that he didn’t like touching her. Pleasing her was the best part of this so far, and he’d rather do it again than what’s supposed to happen next.

She reaches between them and starts to stroke him, trying to coax him into a state she can work with. Bucky bites his lip to keep from making a pitiful noise, because even though it doesn’t feel bad, it doesn’t feel great either, the way this is supposed to. Something’s wrong, something’s all wrong, and it’s got to be his fault because Patsy is perfect. Sweet and patient and happy to take charge while he’s learning what to do.

He can’t disappoint her, not after all she’s done to make him feel safe and good tonight. So Bucky closes his eyes, licks the hard line of her collarbone, slides his hands up her back until he can grasp the points of her shoulder blades. Patsy is so soft, but if he focuses on the sharpest parts of her, then he can almost pretend--

It isn’t right to think of someone else while you have sex, but he’s only going to imagine it’s Steve long enough to get hard again. Then he’ll give Patsy what she wants, and maybe once they go all the way, he’ll want it more too.

(He remembers that day last summer, when he held Steve down and didn’t kiss him. Ran his lips over Steve’s cheeks and chest and the ridges of his ribs. If things had gone differently tonight, he could’ve done it again, only with his mouth open. Tasted him from his soft lips to his bony knees.)

Patsy settles his cock between her thighs and guides him inside. She’s warm and wet here too, like her mouth, but so much tighter. And it’s good, it’s good--it has to be good.

She rides him, pressed too close for Bucky to focus on anything besides the fullness of her breasts and the weight of her wide hips. So pretty, and it’s worse than if she was ugly, because at least then he’d have an excuse for not finding her more alluring out of her clothes than in them.

Bucky grabs her hips, holds her still. “Can we do it a different way?”

“Sure.” Patsy darts close enough to steal a kiss, then leans back smiling. “I can’t do _all_ the work.”

Bucky nods. “Of course not. That’d be downright ungentlemanly.”

She laughs as they disentangle themselves, and this is better, this he can do. Flirt, kiss, make her happy.

Bucky tells her to get on all fours. Patsy scrambles to her hands and knees so fast that he thinks this must be the way she likes it best.

He closes his eyes while he fucks her, and soon she’s saying, “James, _James_. Oh, you feel so--”

“Call me Bucky,” he says.

Patsy pants, sounding dazed, almost drunk. “Huh? What?”

He grips her slender waist and whispers, “Bucky’s my nickname. Can you--please?”

She moans his name, his real name, and that’s it, that’s what he needs to keep going.

 

* * *

 

Bucky is afraid that his fight with Steve will lead to six months of silence, like their confrontation last summer, but when he shows up at Steve’s place the next day, Sarah lets him inside.

“Thanks for taking Steve out on his birthday,” she says. “He was so excited to meet your friends.”

“You only turn fifteen once,” Bucky says.

He finds Steve in bed. His hair is a rumpled mess, one skinny arm hangs off the mattress, and he’s wheezing in his sleep. Bucky wants to touch him, to cup his cheek or grasp the point of his chin.

Instead, he kicks the metal bedframe and says, “G’morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

Steve startles awake, then glares at Bucky. “What’re you doing here?”

“Dragging your lazy ass to breakfast,” Bucky says. “I’ll get you whatever you want.”

It’s an olive branch, an opportunity to not-talk about what happened last night, and he hopes that Steve takes it.

“Fine,” Steve says. “Just give me a few minutes to clean up.”

They go to Della’s, claim their favorite booth at the back of the diner, and eat the quietest breakfast of their lives. Bucky stuffs his face with syrupy waffles to keep from saying something stupid. When the check comes, he tips their waitress fifty cents on a one dollar meal and hopes that doing something good will buy him some mercy from Steve.

“Did you do it?” Steve asks.

It takes a moment for the question to sink in. Last night seems far away, and Bucky spent so much of this morning agonizing over his fight with Steve that he almost forgot about losing his virginity.

He bites his lip, shrugs, and says, “Uh, yeah.”

Steve stares out the window, looking restless but unconcerned.

“Are you mad at me?” Bucky asks.

Steve sighs, and there’s so much weariness in the sound that Bucky almost flinches when he hears it.

“No,” Steve says. “I’m not mad.”

“Oh, okay. That’s good.”

Steve still isn’t looking at him when he asks, “Are you gonna see her again?”

“I don’t think so,” Bucky says. “It was fun and all, but Patsy doesn’t seem too interested in going steady, and I guess I’m not either.”

Steve turns toward him, and his smile is painfully understanding. “Sorry about that. She seemed like a nice girl.”

Steve’s hateful kindness could rip him apart, but Bucky smiles like nothing hurts, and his hands stay steady when he says, “Yeah. She was real nice.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky doesn’t pursue anybody else from school. Having sex before marriage is a big risk in Prospect Heights, and he can’t blame a girl for protecting her reputation when the consequences for losing it would be life-ruining. Besides, if things don’t go well in bed, Bucky doesn’t want anybody he knows hearing about it.

That doesn’t stop him from going to dance halls and speakeasies, drinking whatever homemade booze can be had and making time with the women there. He likes the heat that liquor brings to his blood, how it eases the knot of panic that festers in his belly. Flirting, dancing, trading kisses in the dark--that’s all good too, and he doesn’t usually get further than heavy petting.

Sometimes, though, he’ll follow a dame back to her place to do more. There are girls almost as young as he is, still learning what they want and how to ask for it. There are young widows and bored wives who aren’t as shy with their demands. Every woman is different, pretty in her own way, particular in her preferences, and Bucky finds that he likes learning how to unravel each of them.

Most girls are happy to let him use his hands and mouth, and they accept his excuses without argument: he doesn’t have a rubber, he drank too much, he doesn’t want to get anybody in trouble. Sometimes Bucky can work his way to coming, and sometimes he can barely get it up, but that isn’t worth worrying about. When he’s busy giving pleasure, basking in the desires of other lonely people, he can forget how unwanted he is. And with every stranger he fucks, it’s easier to tell himself that he doesn’t belong to anybody.

 

* * *

 

Steve spends the night three weekends in a row, and it seems like things are finally back to normal between them. Better than normal, really, because Bucky has learned to shut up and keep his hands to himself. Steve seems happier for it, less guarded and quicker to smile. It’s just like old times, except that Steve never draws him anymore.

A blackberry winter sweeps through Brooklyn Heights on Bucky’s seventeenth birthday, sheeting the whole street in white. The backyard glitters, grass buried under a fine layer of clean snow, dawn light shining bright despite the hour.

The first thing Steve says when he looks outside is, “It’s so perfect out there, but I wanna mess it up anyway.”

“Where’s the fun in perfection?” Bucky asks.

They bundle up before the rest of the house stirs, then hurry outside to have a snowball fight. Bucky laughs so hard he cries when Steve steals the grill lid and wields it like a shield. But even if he isn’t very strong or sturdy, Steve has always had quick reflexes, and he blocks most of Bucky’s snowballs.

They stop before Steve’s staccato breaths can trip into an asthma attack. On the way inside, Bucky stuffs a handful of snow down the back of Steve’s shirt.

He yelps, dashes into the hall, and strips out of three patchwork sweaters, cussing Bucky through chattering teeth.

“H-how old are you, six?” Steve asks.

Bucky says, “Seventeen today, actually.”

“Then you’re too old to act like such a little shit,” Steve says, laughing.

Bucky shrugs. “Whatever you say, Captain Killjoy.”

He ruffles Steve’s damp hair, knocking stray clumps of melting snow out of it. He’s careful to keep his touch friendly, light, fleeting. It’s simpler like this, better for both of them. All Bucky has to do is follow Steve’s lead, same as he has since the day they met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes one graphic instance of underage sex between Bucky (age 16) and an original female character (age 17). There are also non-graphic references to sex between Bucky and various female partners. Although their ages are not specified in the chapter, all of Bucky's partners are under 25. These sexual encounters are consensual, but I've added a dubcon tag to cover my bases.


	7. BUCKY: 1.7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added tags for suicidal thoughts, depression, and PTSD for the entire story. This chapter portrays persistent suicidal ideations.

 

## 1.7

#### "There comes a time when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. And then you accept it. Or you kill yourself. Or you stop looking in mirrors."

#### \- Tennessee Williams -

∞

#####  **September to December 1934**

 

 

Bucky has always loved the Brooklyn Bridge. From a distance, the swooping suspension cables look almost delicate, too spindly to support the weight of New York traffic, but the closer you get, the easier it is to see the strength in its design. He likes to stand at the foot of the stone arches and watch the sunrise. It reminds him of cathedral windows, the kind of heaven-high architecture that’s built to inspire awe.

_I could jump_ , Bucky thinks, same as he does every time he comes here. _I could climb right over this railing and jump._

The fall would be scary, but it might be worth it for what he could find at the bottom of the river.

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s English teacher dies one week into the new school year. There are a lot of rumors: that Mr. Gorski had a heart attack in front of a class of freshmen; that he’d been hiding a fatal illness for years; that he’s actually still alive, and Principal Vickerman started the rumor of his death to cover up a nasty scandal.

Bucky didn’t like Mr. Gorski very much. He assigned boring essay topics, and he was dismissive to the girls whenever they answered questions. But Mr. Gorski thought Bucky was a brilliant student, and he’d promised to write him an excellent letter of recommendation.

Most of his classmates are happy to enjoy a couple of weeks with a substitute, but it makes Bucky nervous. Harvard applications are due in two months, and that doesn’t give him much time to charm a new English teacher.

He complains to Steve and Sarah about it over breakfast at their apartment.

“Mr. Vickerman needs to get off his skinny—uh, butt, and hire somebody,” Bucky says. “November’s awful close, and I need to get my recommendation letters locked down.”

Sarah smiles. “Don’t worry too much, Bucky. Your principal is bound to find someone soon. Lord knows there’s plenty of people looking for work.”

Bucky pokes at his egg. The yolk busts, bleeding yellow all over the cracked stoneware plate. “I know. It’s just frustrating. The longer Mr. Vickerman pussyfoots around, the less time I have to make a good impression.”

Steve snorts, but he doesn’t say anything.

“What?” Bucky asks.

Steve stares studiously at the middle of the table. “Nothing.”

Bucky bites his lip, then says, “Well it must have been _something_ , or you wouldn’t have laughed.”

“Nothing you’ll care to hear,” Steve says.

“Actually I think I’d like some elaboration from the peanut gallery.”

Steve has that pigheaded, holier-than-thou look on his face when he says, “It’s not like you’re gonna have trouble wrapping a new teacher around your finger. You do it pretty well with everybody else.”

Sarah throws her napkin on the table and says, “Steven! Apologize right this instant.”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest, mouth flattened to a stubborn line. “Why?”

“Because that was rude—and a _lie_ —and I raised you better than this,” Sarah says. The louder she gets, the airier her accent grows. Less slick Brooklyn and more lilting Irish.

Bucky has never seen Sarah and Steve talk to each other like this, and he doesn’t like that it’s happening over him.

“It’s okay. Steve’s entitled to his opinion, same as everybody else.” Bucky keeps his voice even and calm, but only for Sarah’s sake. The next time he and Steve are alone, they’re going to have a talk. “I oughta get back home anyway. Can’t skip out on my family’s breakfast _and_ chores.”

Steve follows him out the door and says, “Aww, c’mon Bucky, don’t run off.”

“So, what, I should just put up with you being a jackass?” Bucky asks.

“Well it’s not like you haven’t done worse to me, and I got over it fine,” Steve says.

Bucky shakes his head and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I don’t have time for this. My dad’s got my nose to the grindstone over this Harvard thing, and the best essay in the world isn’t gonna help me if I fuck up my calculus exams.”

“Fine. Go work on your stupid application. That’s all you care about these days anyway.”

So Bucky goes home, listens to a twenty-minute speech from his father about how college will knock some sense into his thick head, and works on his stupid application.

 

* * *

 

Bucky goes back to the bridge after church on Sunday. He spends an hour there, watching the traffic, the pedestrians, the sun breaking through a wall of clouds. Golden light skitters across the river’s surface, and it reminds him of Genesis, of God moving upon the face of the waters.

Bucky will give this much to the old Hebrews who wrote _in the beginning_ : it’s a pretty fairy tale. Something nice to think about while he considers jumping over this railing.

It isn’t that he _wants_ to die. Bucky just isn’t put off by the idea the way that most folks are. Death sounds peaceful, calm and empty in a world that is often too busy, too full. He’s tired, so goddamn tired, of fighting for inches of happiness between miles of sorrow.

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Spencer takes Mr. Gorski’s empty post at the end of September. Bucky’s relief that he finally has a new teacher lasts about a week. That’s all it takes for him to realize that Mrs. Spencer is too sharp not to see through his shit. She almost fails him over a paper that Mr. Gorski would have praised.

_You can do much better than this_ , she writes. _See me after your last class._

Bucky calls Mrs. Spencer all kinds of impolite names under his breath and behind her back, but at the end of the day, he reports to her classroom as ordered.

He smiles his most sheepish smile and asks, “You wanted to see me, ma’am?”

Mrs. Spencer looks up from her paperwork, gestures at the chair in front of her desk, and says, “Have a seat, James.”

It’s easy to keep his expression friendly and contrite. Mrs. Spencer is smart, but she’s also five-foot-nothing and no older than thirty. Not exactly the most intimidating authority figure he’s handled.

“I’m sorry about that paper,” Bucky says. “You’re right that I could’ve put more effort into it. Things are pretty busy for me right now, and I’m having a hard time balancing it all.”

Mrs. Spencer nods. “Yes, I’ve heard quite a bit about how busy you are. The other teachers tell me you’re a star student: a natural scientist, nearly prodigal at French, and second only to Sally Whitman in calculus. Not to mention all of your other activities. Remind me of what you’re up to after school?”

Bucky leans forward and says, “Not to brag, but I’m a first-string running back, the student council treasurer, and class president. I enjoy being a leader, but it can be a little tiring—”

Mrs. Spencer laughs. “Goodness, James, this isn’t an interview. I’m only trying to check in.”

Bucky winces. “Sorry. Guess I’ve been spending too much time practicing for my visit to Harvard.”

“It’s all right, but I do want to be clear about my expectations moving forward. The paper you turned in on Monday is not going to cut it in my class,” says Mrs. Spencer. “You do have a lot on your plate, and I’m not insensitive that, so if you need extra time to complete your work, let me know. A late assignment won’t be a problem, so long as you write something of true quality. You understand?”

“Yes, ma’am, of course. And about the essay I got back today—”

She waves through his question and says, “Let me guess: you want to know if you can rewrite it.”

Bucky summons his brightest smile. “You got me.”

“Go right ahead,” Mrs. Spencer says. “I’d be interested to see what you have to say when you put real thought behind your words.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky wonders how much it hurts to die, how long it takes, what it feels like to be dead; he thinks that it must not feel like much of anything, and that’s half the appeal. Imagining death is normal, he’s sure, but it’s not the kind of thing that people talk about. It would be best to keep this to himself, just to make sure that he doesn’t end up in a loony bin. Better safe than sorry.

 

* * *

 

Steve has been snappish and quiet by turns since August, but he won’t tell Bucky what’s wrong. At first he thinks that Steve might still be upset over what happened on his fifteenth birthday, but that was over a year ago. Bucky has done his best to keep things normal since then, and everything was fine over the summer.

He has a dozen theories, but Steve shoots them all down. No, he isn’t annoyed with Bucky for cancelling their plans over a date; that girl was gorgeous, and Steve can’t blame him. No, it’s not about the fight Bucky dragged him out of last week, or that Saturday when he climbed up Steve’s fire escape, barely sober enough to walk. No, this isn’t about the argument they had over the presidential election—although Steve does think he’s being a negligent citizen by refusing to discuss politics.

Steve is still being skittish and aloof by the middle of October. Bucky spends most of his weekends holed up at home, writing papers for Mrs. Spencer, studying for tests, and reworking his personal essay for Harvard. He’s written three versions so far, and his father has rejected each one.

_Not good enough, James._

_This is lazy work. Start over._

_You’re capable of excellence, but I haven’t seen it yet._

Today, Bucky and Steve are sitting on his bed doing homework. Steve gave up on his algebra an hour ago, and now he’s doodling along his paper’s empty spaces, weaving cartoons between half-erased equations. He keeps glancing at Bucky, the frown line between his thick eyebrows deepening.

“Are you mad that I’m spending so much time doing school stuff this year?” Bucky asks.

Steve opens his mouth—probably to tell him, _No, it isn’t about that_ —but then he rubs his temple and says, “Yeah. Sort of, anyway.”

“Really?” Bucky asks. “The way you’ve been acting, I figured I’d done something worse than my schoolwork.”

Steve crumples up his vandalized homework and tosses it across the bedroom. It sinks into the wastebin, an effortlessly perfect shot, and Bucky thinks that it’s a damn shame Steve is so sickly, because he’d make a great quarterback. He’s got near-perfect aim.

“I know it’s not fair,” Steve says. “Sorry for giving you a hard time lately. I’m sad, I guess, and maybe jealous, to be honest.”

Bucky closes his essay folder and sets it aside. “Because I’m going off to college, and you’ll still be here for another year?”

“It’s not just one more year. I missed half my classes last spring when I was out with bronchitis, and—well, I got held back.”

Bucky opens his mouth, ready to ask Steve why he hid this. All he ends up saying is, “I’m sorry, Stevie. You’re too smart to be stuck with a bunch of dumb juniors again.”

Steve lies back on the bed, his gaze fixed to the ceiling, and says, “Those juniors still understand our classwork better than I do, so they must not be too dumb.”

“You’ve got twice the sense of anybody I know,” Bucky says sharply. Then, softer, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

He lies next to Steve, their shoulders not quite touching, and stares straight up, sharing the same view so they don’t have to look at each other.

They stay like that, silent and unmoving, until the clock down the hall strikes noon. The ringing noise startles Bucky back to the moment. He reaches for Steve and grasps his wrist—an innocent touch, not trying for anything, and he hopes that’s obvious. Steve is so often his anchor, the weight that keeps him tethered to a life that Bucky isn’t always sure he wants to keep. He should be an anchor for Steve too.

“You know you could’ve told me about this, right? I mean it’s okay that you didn’t. I’m not mad. But you don’t have to do everything on your own,” Bucky says. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Steve leans closer, rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder. He says, “I’m fine. Really. And I’m dropping out anyway. Ma won’t like it, but—”

Bucky sits up, gaping. He doesn’t care about how he looks, because his expression can’t be half as stupid as the horseshit that just came out of Steve’s mouth.

“Wait, _what_? You can’t drop out! How are you gonna go to art school if you don’t graduate?”

Steve draws himself up, so that he’s sitting beside Bucky, and smiles. It’s a quiet, patient smile that makes Bucky want to shake him.

“I’m not going to art school. I’m not good enough to get in, and even if I was I couldn’t afford tuition. Besides, how the hell would I get through painting classes when I can’t see half the colors?”

He grips Steve’s wrist tighter, too tight, but he can’t make himself let go.

“You’re more than good enough,” Bucky says. “And what about scholarships?”

Steve shrugs. “With my disciplinary record? After failing the eleventh grade? Yeah, that ain’t happening, pal.”

Bucky wants to argue, to fight Steve on this, but there’s sense in what he’s saying. Even if it’s a cruel, unjust sort of sense.

Leaving Steve is a reality he’s been too afraid to think on, and until now, Bucky has told himself that it’s just a temporary thing. One year, that’s all, and maybe Steve could go to an art school near Harvard.

But that’s only a dream, a lie he’s been clinging to so that he wouldn’t have to face the reality looming ahead: his love for Steve is a childish thing, no matter how powerful it is, and if he lets it, growing up is going to tear them apart.

“Then you should come with me,” Bucky says. “I’m not gonna live in a dorm anyway, and I’ll need a roommate.”

Steve shakes his head and pulls his wrist out of Bucky’s grasp. “I can’t just follow you. Jesus, what would I even do in Massachusetts? There’s nothing for me there.”

“ _I’ll_ be there,” Bucky whispers.

Steve’s gaze is steady and blue, full of tenderness. “I’ll think about it. Okay?”

That’s the careful, wondering tone that creeps into Steve’s voice when he’s made up his mind but hasn’t realized it yet, and Bucky smiles, wider and truer than he’s been able to for months.

 

* * *

 

Bucky still goes to the bridge after church, but he’s bored and restless, and he only stays for a few minutes. There’s nothing tempting about the water today; the river is only a river.

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s interview at Harvard goes well, but the drive back to New York is long and nerve-wracking. He can’t read his father’s mood, and he feels smothered within the claustrophobic confines of the car. At least it’s quiet.

When they finally reach Brooklyn, Dad says, “James, I want you to know that I’m proud of you. Whether or not you get accepted, you’ve done your best, and hard work is what matters most.”

Bucky swallows around the lump in his throat, breathes through the warm feeling in his chest. It’s pathetic that rare doses of praise from his father can make him this happy, but he still says, “Thank you, sir,” and means every word of it.

The next night, Dad gets a call from Professor Paulson, Chair of the Harvard English department. They’re old friends, and he tells Dad that, even though it won’t be official until acceptance letters go out, Bucky is a shoe-in. As long as he keeps his grades up through the rest of the school year, he’ll be a student at Harvard next fall.

In nine months he’ll be free, far away, and living with Steve.

After his mother finally stops hugging him, and Dad gets tired of slapping him on the back, Bucky takes the train to Red Hook so he can tell Steve the good news.

“I’m getting the hell out of here!” he says. “And you’re coming with me, punk. Harvard is really something else—it’s greener than Central Park, I swear to God—and you’re not gonna believe the buildings. You’ll wanna draw them all day, I just know it. And I’ve got a feeling that you’ll love Boston—”

“Slow down,” Steve says, but he’s laughing and his eyes are bright. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this excited about anything, Buck.”

Bucky ruffles his hair. “C’mon, and you’re not? I know you, Stevie. You’ve been dying to see something more than New York all your life. You’re not made to be stuck in one place.”

When Steve ducks his head, trying to flatten his smile into a straight line, Bucky yanks him close. He smells like wool and charcoal pencils—a Christmas present that Bucky couldn’t wait another three weeks to give. He tucks Steve’s head against his shoulder, and it isn’t fair, how well they fit, like they belong together. Bucky doesn’t know how to shake the feeling that he and Steve should be like this all the time.

He waits for the moment that always comes these days, the moment when Steve pushes him away. Bucky waits, but the moment doesn’t come, and they hold onto each other until it’s easy, even natural, to let go.

 

* * *

 

Bucky decides to stop going to the bridge altogether. He doesn’t need to anymore, because he’s found another way out of Brooklyn.


	8. BUCKY: 1.8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter definitely earns the E rating, just fyi. ;)

 

## 1.8

#### "In one kiss, you’ll know all I haven’t said."

#### \- Pablo Neruda -

∞

#####  **December 1934**

 

 

Belated-Christmas with Steve and Sarah is far more fun than Christmas Day with his own family. The baked chicken and boiled potatoes are a little bland, and maybe the Rogers’s apartment isn’t especially festive, but there’s more to the holiday season than fancy meals and mistletoe. Sarah plays “Winter Wonderland” on the secondhand phonograph Steve presented her with yesterday, and she gives both of them dance lessons. Bucky doesn’t need any instruction, because he’s been sneaking out to the local dance halls for over a year now, but it’s nice to indulge Sarah anyway. She’s even smaller and more delicate than Steve, easy to lead, and she proclaims Bucky the best dancer she’s ever had the honor to partner with.

Steve doesn’t fare as well, and when he steps on his mother’s feet for the third time in as many minutes, Bucky snorts into his eggnog. (It’s sweet and creamy with a hint of nutmeg, but lacking spirits, because Sarah isn’t quite lax enough to give teenagers alcohol.)

“Laugh it up,” Steve says. He’s trying to sound surly, but the smile tugging at his mouth ruins the effect.

“Oh, I will,” Bucky promises. “This is priceless.”

Sarah kisses Steve on the forehead. “I think we’re going to have to cut our lesson short. My toes are feeling rather abused.”

“C’mon, you can’t give up on me now! I’m just starting to get the hang of this,” Steve says, grinning.

Sarah cups his cheeks and looks up at him, her expression studiously solemn. “Because I love you, I have to be honest: you’re many wonderful things, Steven Grant Rogers… but you are not a dancer.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Gee, thanks, Ma.”

She brushes his hair away from his face and says, “I have to go anyway, dear. My shift starts soon, and I need to catch the train, remember?”

“Yeah, I know.” Steve puts his hands in his pockets, shrugging. “It just doesn’t seem fair that you’ve gotta work again tonight when you just filled in for Marcy yesterday.”

“That was a favor for a friend,” Sarah says. “Besides, Christmas shifts pay more, and a little extra money never hurts.”

Bucky knows that’s her diplomatic way of saying that finances are tighter than usual.

Sarah pulls on her threadbare coat, buttons it up, and tells them not to burn down the tenement overnight.

Bucky snaps his fingers. “Damn. And I was hoping to start an illustrious career as an arsonist.”

She points at him and says, “Language!” But Sarah can’t fake being affronted any better than her son, and she laughs as she chastises him.

“Don’t blame me,” Bucky says. “I picked up that word from your foul-mouthed son. He’s swears like a sailor when you’re not around.”

“Hey!” Steve shouts. “That is not true, Ma!”

Sarah just shakes her head, grabs her purse, and says, “You boys have fun. I’ll be back in twelve hours. Please don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”

As soon as the door closes behind her, Bucky goes to his knapsack, pulls out a flask, and waves it at Steve, smirking. “What do you say we spice up that eggnog?”

“Where’d you get that?” Steve asks.

“My cousin Oliver, the one who goes to Harvard. He’s visiting for the holidays―without his parents, thank Christ―and he was generous enough to buy us some bourbon.” Bucky steals a spoon from the kitchen, pours a healthy dose of liquor into his mug, and stirs it until the eggnog turns a richer, deeper gold. “Cheers.”

Bucky drinks half the eggnog in one go, then offers the rest of it to Steve.

“I don’t know,” he says, frowning. “What if we get drunk?”

Bucky laughs, wraps an arm around Steve’s shoulders, and puts the drink in his hands. “That’s kind of the whole point.”

Steve takes a sip and coughs. “It tasted better without the bourbon.”

Bucky claps him on the back. “People don’t drink for the taste, Steve.”

By midnight, they’ve emptied the flask, and Bucky feels light, happy, and warm, tipsy but not out of control. The liquor seems to be hitting Steve pretty hard, though, because he laughs at everything and can’t walk without stumbling. When Bucky tries to help him to bed, Steve trips and takes both of them down to the floor. They lie on the icy hardwood, tangled up and too unbalanced to unknot themselves (although maybe Bucky isn’t trying too hard to disentangle from Steve, and he’s banking on his friend being too drunk to notice).

Steve sniggers like this is the funniest thing in the world, then says, “Let’s just stay here, okay?”

“No way you’re sleeping on this cold floor,” Bucky says. “That’s asking for pneumonia.”

“I’m not _that_ fragile.”

He doesn’t have to look at Steve to know he’s scowling.

“We both know that’s a lie,” Bucky says, but he ruffles Steve’s hair so he’ll know it’s meant kindly.

Probably because he’s three sheets to the wind, Steve leans into Bucky’s touch, eager as a puppy for petting, and makes a small, pleased sound in the back of his throat. He always has liked having his hair stroked, but he’s never this obvious about it. Since the night of his fifteenth birthday, Steve has been so careful to dodge any touch of Bucky’s that could be too-friendly, and God knows that Bucky has done his damnedest to respect Steve’s wishes. But he isn’t shying away tonight.

Bucky tightens his grip, pulls until he’s sure it must hurt some, and Steve makes that choked noise again, only louder.

“That feel good?” Bucky asks. He hopes that Steve is too sloshed to hear how ragged his voice is becoming.

“Mhmm.” Steve nuzzles closer, buries his face against Bucky’s chest. “You smell nice.”

He keeps playing with Steve’s hair, drawing muffled whimpers from him that are wearing down the edges of his willpower. Bucky can feel himself getting hard, and if he doesn’t stop this he’s going to have an erection too noticeable for Steve to miss.

“C’mon, we can’t lay here all night.”

Steve complains, but he allows Bucky to scoop him up, like a groom with his bride, and carry him to bed. He’s a bittersweet weight in Bucky’s arms, and it never fails to amaze him how a body so delicate contains the force of nature that is Steve Rogers.

Bucky lays him down as gently as he can manage, unlaces Steve’s battered boots, and pulls them off his feet. He laughs when he sees newspapers lining the insides of his shoes, but it’s not really funny, because Steve’s worn out everything he owns, and now his only pair of boots are falling apart in the middle of winter.

Steve fumbles with his belt, but his hands are too clumsy to work the buckle. “A little help?” he asks, and that, more than anything, tells Bucky how far gone he is.

Undressing your pal is definitely the kind of thing boys aren’t supposed to do for each other, no matter how stupid drunk they are, but he figures it’s no worse than cuddling on the floor together for twenty minutes. He makes quick work of the belt, perfunctory and efficient, and Steve lifts his hips so Bucky can pull it free from the loops on his trousers.

Like everything else in this apartment, Steve’s trundle bed is a half-broken hand-me-down, and by the time Bucky gets the lower part unstuck from its frame and popped up to its full height, he’s too frustrated to bother getting a blanket from the closet. He cusses, curls up on the stiff mattress, and steals an extra pillow out from under Steve’s head. It carries the scent of his dimestore shampoo, cheap but clean, and Bucky rolls onto his back so he doesn’t have to smell it.

 

* * *

 

He wakes in the early hours of the morning, when the grey dawn is starting to creep through the blinds, steeping the shadowed bedroom in silver light. He’s fuzzy-headed from sleep and a night of bourbon drinking, so it takes a moment for Bucky to notice that Steve is gasping next to him. His mind jumps to asthma attacks, and the gut-wrenching fear that Steve _can’t breathe_ sobers him immediately.

Bucky grabs Steve by the shoulder and turns him over, terrified that he’s going to see him blue-lipped, choking on the air in his own lungs.

Steve stares up at him with wide, panicked eyes, but he looks well enough. The small sound he makes is surprised, not pained, and when he jerks his hand out of his pants, Bucky realizes what he interrupted.

“Oh shit―I thought it might be your asthma―I didn’t mean to―”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been doing that, not with you right here,” Steve says, and he hurries to fix his pants.

Bucky knows he should look away, but he can’t, not when Steve’s trousers are open and his cock is right there, stiff and pink, wet at the tip―

“It’s okay,” Bucky says. “I don’t mind.”

He can’t stop himself from staring as Steve zips his fly. His cock is covered again, but he’s still hard, and Bucky can see the outline of him through his pants, straining against the fabric.

“I’ve done it before. Touched myself when I was with you,” he says.

It’s light enough that he can see how flushed Steve’s face is, how his blush paints his throat and collarbones. Bucky wants to unbutton his shirt and find out how far down that warm color goes.

“I didn’t know that,” Steve says evenly, dispassionately, like they’re discussing the weather.

“I guess I’m sneakier than you,” Bucky says.

“Doubt it. You’re probably just quieter.”

Steve fidgets with his shirt, buttoning it up higher, covering as much bare skin as he can.

“That wouldn’t exactly be difficult,” Bucky says. “Half the girls I’ve fucked didn’t make that much noise in bed.”

Steve’s bland expression falters, dipping into something more nervous, more real.

“Stop it,” he says. “That isn’t funny.”

Bucky draws closer, so that he’s looking down at Steve when he says, “I’d hate to hear you come. You’d probably wake the neighbors.”

Steve shoves him, but Bucky is almost twice his weight, and it’s easy to pin him to the mattress. All of his fragile lines and boyish edges are caught under Bucky’s body, every bit of him sharp and shaking. Steve squirms, swears, but he isn’t trying to throw Bucky off of him anymore. He leans back so that he can see Steve’s face, but his expression is so shuttered that it’s impossible to get a read on what he’s thinking.

Bucky knows he should apologize, pretend this never happened, but he’s so close to having Steve, and he’s wanted this for too long not to try. Bucky rolls his hips against Steve’s, grips his hair, says his name―

And Steve rocks up, panting, skinny legs falling open around Bucky’s hips. Even this, just rubbing together through too many clothes, feels painfully good, and he wants to touch Steve everywhere. Bucky yanks at Steve’s shirt and ruts between his thighs, licks the sweet hollow between his collarbones.

Steve pushes at Bucky’s shoulders, scrambles backward, and says, “Get off me.”

Bucky jerks away, holding up his hands. “Did I hurt you?”

Steve tilts his head back and runs a hand over his face. “Do I look hurt to you?” he asks.

He’s disheveled and dazed, a quivering mess, but no, Steve doesn’t look hurt.

“Lemme help you out,” Bucky says, so quickly that the words trip out of his mouth. “Do for you like you were gonna do for yourself, you know? It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Steve twists the sheets in his fists so hard that his knuckles turn white. “Maybe it _should_ mean something,” he says.

Bucky covers Steve’s hand with his own, tugs until his grip loosens, and says, “That’s real noble and all, saving yourself for the right girl, but how’s it working out for you?”

He expects Steve to say something prideful, but he only grabs Bucky’s wrist and whispers, “Not too well.”

There’s so much Bucky could say: that Steve deserves better than the lot he’s been given; that he’s the strongest boy Bucky has ever known, at least in all the ways that matter; that if he’d ever let anyone close, he’d find a steady girl in no time. There’s so much that he could say, but he can’t bring himself to admit any of it.

Steve’s hands shake when he reaches down to unbutton his pants. That’s all the invitation Bucky could hope for, but defeat and desperation are written all over Steve, and this isn’t how it was supposed to happen.

He brushes Steve’s bangs away from his forehead, cups his cheek, and asks, “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Steve makes a sound that, depending on how you listen to it, could be a laugh or a sob. “Just―Jesus, just do it,” he says.

Bucky wipes at his eyes with his shirtsleeve, sniffs, and says, “Okay. Sure, pal.”

He itches to get Steve out of his shirt, to kiss his ribs and lick a line down his concave belly. Steve won’t want to be undressed, though. Won’t want Bucky to touch him more than necessary.

So he unzips Steve’s pants, yanks them down his hips, and takes his cock in hand. It only takes a few quick strokes to make him moan, and that shouldn’t fill Bucky with such pride, but it does. Any boy with blood in his veins would react to being handled like this, but with Steve writhing and whimpering under him, it’s easier to pretend that what they’re doing is special. That Steve wants him.

“You like that?” Bucky asks.

Steve turns his head to the side, like he’s trying to hide his face in the pillow, even as he raises his hips. “Yeah,” he mumbles.

Bucky catches Steve by his chin and makes him look at what’s being done to him. Steve watches, pupils blown wide, black swallowing the blue of his glassy eyes. He’s so beautiful like this: on the verge of tears, breathless, blonde hair sweaty and rumpled.

This is amazing, this is everything Bucky has been lusting after, but it’s still not enough, because he wants it to be real.

Bucky slows down his strokes to a pace that’s no good for anything but torture. Steve groans, glares at him, and says, “Stop teasing.”

“If you want to come you gotta ask for it,” Bucky says.

Steve stays quiet, because he’s nothing if not headstrong, but there’s only so long he can last. He’s close to coming, shivering all over, and those tears he’s been holding back finally spill free, falling diamond-bright down his pink cheeks. Bucky has never seen Steve cry before, and there’s something shockingly intimate about it.

“Please,” he whimpers. “Just let me―make me―”

Bucky strokes harder, faster, and brings Steve off within seconds. He cries out, back arching, mouth open on a high, broken moan, and Bucky can’t help it, can’t keep from kissing him. He swallows Steve’s sounds while he shakes underneath him and comes in his hand. He tastes like eggnog and bourbon, like home.

Bucky breaks away, wipes his hand on Steve’s shirt, which is already messy with come anyway, and touches his tear-streaked cheek. He strokes his thumb through the wetness there, marveling at how pretty Steve is when he cries.

Steve scrubs at his face, dashing away his tears as quickly as he can, and says, “I didn’t tell you it was okay to kiss me.”

He plucks at Steve’s stained shirt, then says, “Sorry. I figured it wouldn’t be a big deal, compared to the rest.”

Steve pulls up his pants and zips his fly, but his movements are clumsy and unfocused.

Bucky sits next to him, trying to ignore the smell of sex. He’s hard, so hard, ready to burst just from breathing in the vulgar, earthy scent of Steve’s come.

Steve keeps stealing glances at Bucky’s lap, then looking away, the silence thickening between them until he asks, “Should I―do you want me to…?”

Bucky grips the sheets as tightly as he can to keep from clawing at his own skin. “Don’t worry. I’m not expecting you to return the favor.”

“Well it’s pretty unfair if I don’t,” Steve says.

“Oh yeah?” Bucky asks. “That’s big talk from someone who got his panties in a twist over a kiss.”

“You want some help or not?” Steve asks.

There are a dozen guarded, smart alek things Bucky could say, but somehow he ends up whispering, “You know I do.”

Steve takes a deep breath, looks over at Bucky, and asks, “Well what are you waiting on? A marriage proposal?”

He hauls Steve onto his lap, so that he’s sitting with his back to Bucky’s chest, splayed in a loose kneeling position, ass cradled against Bucky’s groin.

“You don’t even have to touch me,” Bucky says. He nuzzles the nape of Steve’s neck, kisses his pulse point, nips his earlobe. “Just let me do all the work. That okay?”

Steve nods. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Bucky laughs. “Don’t go making promises you can’t keep, doll.”

Steve makes an indignant noise and says, “I’m not a _girl_ ―” but he shuts up quick enough when Bucky bites at the nape of his neck.

He leans back so he can get some leverage, supports himself on one arm while he grips Steve’s hip with his free hand. Then he rocks up, slow, careful, drawing it out as much as he can when he’s nearly falling apart. They’re both fully dressed, but it barely matters, because Steve is sitting on him, slender legs spread wide apart across his lap. Every time he thrusts, Steve shudders and makes a soft, strangled noise. The back of his skinny neck is pink, and when Bucky yanks up his shirt, he sees that the ruddy flush runs halfway down his back. He cups the crest of Steve’s shoulder blade, then slides his fingers down the imperfect ridges of his wayward spine.

He keeps rocking up, rubbing against Steve harder now. He grasps at Bucky’s pants, the sheets, then loses his balance and tumbles backward, swearing a blue streak.

He catches Steve, but they still fall flat to the bed. Bucky wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him close, closer, so that there’s no space between them. Steve’s back is still pressed to Bucky’s front, head now nestled against the curve of his shoulder, knees bent and legs spread open on either side of Bucky’s. He clutches Steve’s hair and tugs until he groans.

Bucky lifts his hips, grinding against Steve as roughly as he can in this position, laying pointed, open-mouthed kisses on his temple, his cheek.

“ _Bucky_ ―”

“Shut up, Steve.”

Bucky reaches around, grasps Steve’s thighs, and spreads his legs farther apart. Then finally, _finally_ , Steve moans and starts moving back, rocking in time with Bucky’s thrusts. He could shatter into a hundred feverish pieces, every muscle in his body straining for a little bit more.

Lost, drunk, unraveled, Bucky asks, “D’you got any idea how beautiful you are? You’re so fucking perfect, and you―you feel―”

Bucky’s whole body goes weak when he comes, but he keeps rocking against Steve, quaking and gasping as he rides it out.

It takes a moment, an hour, a century for the world to right itself around him, and Bucky’s first coherent thought is that nothing has ever taken him apart like this. It’s like he’s been torn down from his foundation and remade.

“That was so goddamn good,” Bucky says.

He waits, and wishes, and hopes that Steve will say it back. Or at least say something, but the quiet unfolds between them until Bucky can’t stand it. He pushes Steve away, carelessly enough that he yelps and lands face-down on the mattress.

Steve huffs, rolls over, glares at Bucky, and says, “Jerk.”

“Who’re you calling names, you punk?”

Steve punches him playfully, grinning. Then they’re tussling on the bed, wrestling and talking shit to each other, like always. It could almost be innocent, just boys being boys, if their clothes weren’t wet with come.

He kisses Steve―a real kiss this time. Bucky licks, sucks, worries at Steve’s lips. Gently, patiently, he coaxes Steve into kissing back. It’s slow and tender, until suddenly it isn’t, and Steve is hanging onto Bucky’s shirt, biting too hard and licking with sloppy, unpracticed enthusiasm. So eager and wet that it makes Bucky smile, almost laugh.

Steve jerks away. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” Bucky says. He takes a moment to breathe, find the right words, and say, “I’m not making fun of you, all right? I’m just happy.”

“You’re happy that I don’t know how to kiss?” Steve asks flatly.

“No. Well, sorta,” Bucky says. “I’m happy that I get to teach you how to do it. That I’m your first.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense,” Steve says.

Bucky shrugs. “Just remember, whenever you get to lay one on a girl, that you know what you’re doing because of me.”

Steve snorts. “You must be the vainest creature in the whole damn world.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says. “Stop your nagging and put that pretty mouth to better use.”

He half-expects Steve to balk at being ordered around like that, but instead he grabs Bucky by the collar, yanks him down, and kisses him again. By the time they part, dawn is long past, and the clock on the side table is ticking its way through the last hour of Sarah’s shift.

Steve says, “We should clean up before Ma gets home.”

They scrub their dirty clothes in the bathtub, wring them out, and drape them over the radiator in Steve’s room, all without speaking one word to each other.

  

* * *

 

Sarah returns at eight-thirty, makes breakfast, and wakes them up to eat it. She fusses over Steve when he only picks at his fried eggs and potato hash, barely eating.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“Ma, I’m fine,” he says, but that doesn’t stop her from putting her hand to his forehead.

Sarah frowns. “You feel feverish.”

“I’m not!” Steve says, but he’s blushing so fiercely that Bucky has to choke back a laugh.

“If you say so.” Sarah tilts her head and looks at him more closely. “Something about you seems, I don’t know, _off_. I hope you’re not coming down with another cold. The last one was so hard on you.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, careful to keep his voice even, his expression the picture of friendly concern. “Don’t want to get knocked flat on your back again.”

Steve turns beet red, but he’s smart enough not to look at Bucky.

After breakfast, Sarah says she’s dead on her feet and heads to bed, leaving Bucky and Steve alone in the little kitchen.

“‘Flat on my back,’” Steve whispers. “Really? In front of my mother?”

Bucky keeps his voice low too. “Oh, please, I’m not the one who was being obvious. You might as well have hung a sign around your neck that said, ‘I broke the law last night.’”

Steve glances at the door to his mother’s bedroom. “We shouldn’t talk about this here.”

Bucky taps the tabletop. Maybe his fear won’t show in his voice if he spends his nervous energy on fidgeting. Bucky reaches for Steve, but stops before he can touch him.

“Does that mean you wanna talk about it somewhere else?” Bucky asks.

Steve stands, crosses his arms, and says, “I don’t see why we should.”

_Of course_ , Bucky thinks. _Back to square one._

He gets up and grabs his knapsack from the hall. “I need to get home.”

“But it’s Christmas,” Steve says. “You always stay two nights after Christmas.”

Bucky says, “Not this time,” then smiles as widely as he can manage. “Ma needs help around the house. She and Dad are throwing some big New Year’s thing, so me and the girls are on dusting duty.”

That’s half true. His sisters will be cleaning for the next four days, but Dad would never dream of making his only son do “woman’s work.”

Steve probably knows this, but he nods and says, “Right. Well, I guess I’ll see you later then.”

“Definitely.” Bucky shoulders his bag, walks over to Steve, and gives him a quick, one-armed hug. “You should come to the party.”

“Sure.” Steve smiles, but it’s so sad around the edges that Bucky’s stomach twists. “I’ll be there.”


	9. BUCKY: 1.9

## 1.9

#### "There’s beauty in broken things, if you allow yourself to feel it."

#### \- J. M. Storm -

∞

#####  **December 1934 to January 1935**

 

 

“It’s not fair!” Rebecca says. “I had to clean all week for this stupid party, and I don’t even get to go?”

Ma raises her hand. “We’ve already gone over this. You’re too young.”

Rebecca cocks her hip, posing in a way that she probably thinks will make her look more mature. “I’m fifteen! Bucky got to go to parties when he was fifteen. Even Oliver gets to go, and he’s only visiting, so why can’t I?”

Bucky looks up from his book, smirking. “Probably because you throw temper tantrums when you don’t get what you want.”

Ma pinches the bridge of her nose. “That’s not helpful.”

“It’s only because you’re a boy,” Rebecca says. “That’s why you get to do everything.”

“Not _everything_.” Bucky waves his hand toward the dining room table, spread with the food that Ma and Rebecca have been preparing all day. “I don’t get to cook and clean! Those are valuable life skills.”

His sister glares at him, her brown eyes alive with so much resentment that Bucky smiles wider. He stands, walks over to Rebecca, and pulls her ponytail. “Jeez, Becks, do you have to be so obvious with the jealousy? I mean, yeah, I’m older and smarter, and everyone likes me better than you. But that’s no reason to go all green-eyed monster, yanno?”

Ma shakes her head and walks out of the room. “I need to finish cooking.”

“I hate you,” Rebecca says. Then she slaps him, hard, right in the middle of his stomach―which she _knows_ is still bruised.

Bucky hisses and doubles over, fighting a wave of nausea. “You are such a cunt.”

She smiles sweetly. “Takes one to know one, James.”

As a rule, Bucky does not hit women, but sometimes Rebecca tries his patience.

“Enjoy spending the night with Aunt Mildred and the other little kids,” he says. “I need to get ready for the party.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky uses half a tin of Dapper Dan trying to get his hair to behave, but it only makes him look like a greasy gangster with a stubborn cowlick, and Oliver laughs when he sees it. So Bucky dunks his head in the bathroom sink and washes out the pomade, cussing all the while.

“Having problems?” Steve asks

Bucky straightens, grabs a towel, and dries his hair. “I’m glad you came,” he says.

Steve shrugs, puts his hands in his pockets. “I told you I would.”

Bucky smiles, but it’s strained, because now that Steve is here, standing in the middle of his bedroom, it’s much harder to ignore what they did together. To forget the weight of his cock in Bucky’s hand, what he sounds like as he comes.

Steve looks down at his threadbare shirt and faded tie, which is so out-of-date that Bucky is certain it once belonged to the late Joseph Rogers. “Is this okay?”

He knows that Steve’s best clothes aren’t much nicer than his worst, but he’d be beautiful dressed in rags as far as Bucky is concerned. “Eh,” he says. “You’ll do, I suppose.”

Steve gestures at Bucky’s black suit. “You look real handsome―nice, I mean, you look nice.”

“Handsome, huh?” Bucky grins and tilts his chin up.

Steve sits on the edge of the bed and asks, “You’re gonna preen like a rooster all night now, aren’t you?”

“That’s a modest guess,” Bucky says. “I’ll preen for at least a week.”

Steve shakes his head. “Just what you needed. A bigger ego.”

Bucky sits beside Steve, wraps an arm around his shoulders, and whispers in his ear, “I don’t need a bigger anything. But I guess you know that.”

Steve inhales sharply, and his hands curl into fists at his sides. Bucky expects him to blush and change the subject, but instead he says, cool as you please, “Well, I didn’t exactly get a good look. You never undressed, remember?”

Bucky almost chokes, because of course he remembers, and now it’s the only thing he can think of. The taste of Steve’s skin and the smell of his hair. How it felt to rock against him, to come with Steve’s sharp body beneath his hands.

Steve may be brave, but he’s never been bold in this particular way before, and Bucky must be looking at him with the astonishment he feels, because Steve asks, “What? You’re not the only one who can talk like that.”

“We should probably go downstairs,” Bucky says quickly, and it’s embarrassing how shaken he sounds. “Mingle and shit.”

“Sure,” Steve says. “Can’t hide up here forever.”

The party hasn’t gained much momentum yet, and half the guests still haven’t arrived, but Bucky can breathe a little easier just the same. The presence of other people acts as a buffer between him and Steve, and that’s enough to calm his nerves some. A drink would help with that, but he can’t risk it with his father presiding over the party. If Dad sees him indulging in so much as a beer, he’ll have hell to pay for it later.

Steve admires the elegantly ornamented, twelve-foot Douglas fir that Ma insisted upon. Nevermind that she doesn’t believe in Jesus and tolerates Christmas at best; his mother is simply opposed to having one of those “tacky, plastic skeleton trees that everyone swoons over” destroying the carefully cultivated decor of her den.

Festive music plays on the radio while his family’s guests drink, dance, and laugh, but Bucky can’t find it in himself to celebrate the coming year. He expects that 1935 will be more of the same ugly shit, and the only changes he sees on the horizon are too dangerous and complicated for him to reflect on right now. Bucky can’t act too maudlin, though, not with Steve beside him, because his friend will worry over him like a mother hen if he does.

When Oliver wanders over, he claps Bucky on the back and asks, “Who’s your pal?”

“This is Steve, my best friend.” That’s as true as always, but it feels like a lie all of a sudden, and Bucky hopes that Oliver doesn’t notice anything amiss.

“Nice to meet you,” Steve says, and they shake hands.

Oliver hums, looks him up and down. “So this is the famous Steve Rogers. Gotta admit, I was picturing something a little different.”

“Taller?” Steve asks wryly.

“No, but maybe more of an obvious paragon.” Oliver ruffles Bucky’s damp hair and says, “This one talks about you like the sun shines out of your ass. You can imagine my surprise to find that you’re only human.”

Steve looks up at Bucky, eyebrows raised. “Is that so?”

If a hole opened up in the earth to swallow him right now, Bucky would jump in without a moment’s hesitation. “Thanks, Ollie. Thanks a lot.”

“No problem.” Oliver elbows him, and although it’s gentle enough, that jab lands right on Bucky’s bruised ribs. He sucks in a breath and clutches his side, trying not to flinch.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, and he takes a half-step forward, like he means to steady Bucky but thinks better of it.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He smooths his jacket, fusses with his cufflinks. “It’s nothing.”

Oliver is giving him the sort of sad, knowing look that verges on pity, and it pisses Bucky off. So he asks, “How’s Harvard? Still flunking Latin?”

“I’ll have you know I passed Latin. Well, barely. By paying somebody to do my work,” Oliver says, rolling his eyes, as if cheating his way through an Ivy League college is no big deal. “But I passed! That’s what counts. And I never again have to translate another dry, dusty poem written by Romans with no sense of adventure.”

Bucky leans against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. “Clearly you weren’t reading Catullus.”

“Who’s Catullus?” Steve asks.

“Just a long dead, dirty poet,” Bucky says.

“A _queer_ , long dead, dirty poet,” Oliver corrects, pulling a face. “He really was a sick bastard. If you ever want to learn how to say ‘I’ll sodomize you and fuck your mouth’ in Latin, Catullus is your man.”

“I’m not sure that’s a phrase I’ll ever need,” Steve says.

Oliver grabs a flute of champagne, downs half of it, and asks Bucky, “Find any use for that bourbon yet?”

“Oh, yeah,” Bucky says, and now he’s remembering that morning in Steve’s room again. What they did together; what people like Oliver would say if they knew about it. “But to be honest, I don’t know if I should thank you for that or not.”

Oliver chuckles, sips his champagne. “So what are you regretting? Bad hangover, or bad decisions?”

Bucky looks anywhere besides at Steve. “I wouldn’t call it a _bad_ decision. Unwise maybe, but not really the sort of thing you’re sorry for.”

“Fair enough.” Oliver glances over Steve’s head, claps Bucky on the shoulder, and excuses himself, no doubt to go flirt with the pretty redhead who just walked in.

Once he’s out of earshot, Bucky leans over to Steve and says, “ _Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo_.”

Steve frowns. “What?”

“That’s how you say ‘I’ll fuck your ass and your mouth’ in Latin.” Bucky grins sharply, straightens Steve’s crooked tie, and says, “In case you were curious.”

There’s the blush that Bucky had been hoping for earlier.

 

* * *

 

“Auld Lang Syne” plays on the radio, and his father’s guests sing along with the Royal Canadians. Their drunken vocals don’t improve the music, and Bucky has always hated this song anyway, because you don’t even have to listen to the lyrics to hear how melancholy it is. The gloomy melody makes him think of everything that went wrong in 1934.

He’d kill for a goddamn drink right now.

“The Royal Canucks sound like somebody shot their dog,” Bucky says. He means this to be a joke, but he suspects that it falls flat, more bitter than lighthearted.

Steve doesn’t disagree. He’s wearing his concerned face, though, so Bucky makes himself grin. Slings his arm around Steve’s shoulders, casual and loose, the kind of embrace that’s perfectly normal between friends. “I’ve had about all of this party I can stomach. Want to go upstairs?”

“Sure.” Steve smiles, and his expression is mostly warm, but he looks a bit nervous too.

If he’s afraid that Bucky will do something rash once they’re alone, his fears are not misguided. He crowds Steve against the bedroom door as soon as it closes, charging the small space between them with the tension and intimacy that he’s been feeling all night. Bucky kisses him, rough and deep. Cradles Steve’s narrow face between his hands, tastes him, bites his lower lip. They’re graceless and messy, because Steve doesn’t really know what he’s doing and Bucky is so desperate.

This is stupid, kissing another boy under his father’s roof, but Bucky has barely been able to think of anything else for days. He needs this, needs Steve with a ferocity that scares the hell out of him.

Bucky wishes he could ensure their privacy somehow, but he can’t lock his door without the key, which his father squirreled away only God knows where.

Last time, between the dim light and their own hesitance, he didn’t get to see much of Steve, but Bucky’s not letting that happen now. He unknots Steve’s tie, pulls it free from his collar, starts unbuttoning his shirt. There’s a strange familiarity about undressing another boy, taking off someone else’s clothes the same way you remove your own, but in reverse.

Steve catches his hands, stops him in the middle of reaching for his belt, and breaks their kiss. “I’m not sure we oughta do this.”

Bucky freezes. “What do you mean?”

“I just--” Steve looks at the floor between his feet, then says, “What we did together, it felt good, but it’s not what--I’m just not--”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. _You’re not like that_.”

Steve’s jaw clenches, his cheeks flushing furiously red. “Well, I’m not.”

“Okay then.” Bucky bites his lip, and when Steve’s gaze flits up to his mouth, he finds the courage to say, “Well, what do you want to do right now?”

Steve runs a hand through his hair, then fusses with the sleeve of his threadbare shirt. “If we do this, we’ve gotta agree on some things.”

“Sure, yeah,” Bucky says. “Whatever you need.”

“I just don’t want us to change. You’re the best--” He swallows, eyes still fixed on Bucky’s mouth. “You’re the only friend I’ve got, and I don’t want this to mess up what we have.”

Bucky wraps his hand around the back of Steve’s neck and bends low enough that they could kiss, if Steve wanted to. “Now you’re just talking stupid. There’s not a power on earth that could ruin us.”

Steve nods, gives Bucky a shaky smile, and asks, “So, uh, before I sidetracked us, what’d you have in mind?”

Bucky shrugs out of his suit jacket, takes off his tie, and tosses them on the bed. Then he drops to his knees, kisses Steve’s bare belly, and unbuckles his belt. Bucky glances up, and because he’s perfected the art of deliberate seduction, he knows exactly how he appears: mouth swollen and wet, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with his need to please, lips slightly parted in a way that invites lewd thoughts. If the look he directs at Steve is more calculated than sincere, an intentional strategy to ensure his friend’s permission, then Bucky forgives himself for it. Sometimes pretense is necessary to get the things you really want.

Steve runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair and asks, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

He’s never been more sure of anything in his life, but Bucky only says, “Don’t worry about it so much. This is just a little fun, right?”

“Yeah.” Steve reaches out, fingers hesitant as he touches Bucky’s jaw, as he presses a thumb to his mouth.

He finishes unfastening Steve’s pants, then pushes his trousers and undershorts down his skinny legs, so that the fabric puddles around his ankles.

Bucky kisses Steve’s hipbone, sucks on the sharp crest until a red mark rises to the surface of his fair skin. He nuzzles and nips at his thighs, leaving love bites that no one besides them will ever see. Darting close to Steve’s stiff cock without quite touching it, simply because he loves to watch him squirm, to hear him gasp.

But this teasing is working up Bucky too, and he can’t maintain it for long. He kisses the tip of Steve’s cock, licks along the slit and savors the taste, like seawater and something bitter. Bucky takes Steve into his mouth, too eager to act coy. Works him with his lips and tongue, sucking, then swallowing him down. It hurts some, stretches his throat in a way that’s uncomfortable but far from unpleasant. When Steve jerks forward, pushing his cock deeper, Bucky gags. He pulls away, coughing and slightly sick to his stomach. Wipes at his sticky mouth and watering eyes with the back of his hand, and gives Steve his most offended glare.

“Sorry, I didn’t do that on purpose,” Steve says. He sounds guilty, overwrought, and breathless. “It just felt so good, I couldn’t help it.”

Bucky bites back a weak noise and tries again. It’s so gratifying to finally taste and touch Steve the way he’s been wanting for years, to make him whimper and quake. Bucky sucks with such enthusiasm that it probably reveals how hungry he’s been for this, but he can’t make himself care right now.

Much as he’d like to, he can’t take all of Steve’s cock. So Bucky uses his hand to pick up the slack, and soon he finds a sloppy rhythm. Steve grips his hair, holding on almost painfully hard. He shudders, but doesn’t fuck into Bucky’s mouth, careful only to indulge in the most shallow thrusts. And this is good, this is all so impossibly good that he almost can’t believe it’s happening.

The fast girls that Bucky’s gone with have let him do this sort of thing before, but there’s a world of difference between those experiences and sucking Steve. Girls are so much softer to the touch, but harder to unravel. Pretty and wet, and Bucky has always liked tasting them more than fucking, because he could focus on getting them off instead of struggling to stay hard. He enjoyed making them come without having to worry about why he wasn’t feeling much in return. With girls, this was sweet and pleasant, if not all that pleasurable.

Not like this. Being with Steve overwhelms him, like there’s a fever burning through his blood, a consuming sickness that he’d happily die from. Bucky doesn’t know if it’s because he’s queer, or maybe just because Steve is the only person who could make him feel this way.

He’s so hard he hurts, and Bucky moans, the sound muffled around Steve’s cock. He fumbles to get his own pants down, then starts stroking himself as he sucks faster and more fervently.

Suddenly Steve yanks at his hair, hissing, “Wait, Buck―I’m gonna―”

Bucky takes him deeper, sucks until Steve shouts―too loud, really, and thank God everyone’s three floors down. He gags again, because Steve is thrusting more roughly, spilling right into his mouth. Bucky swallows it, relishing the flavor, less bitter and more salty. He licks at Steve’s softening cock, little laps that he keeps light and gentle, cleaning all of the come from his skin.

Steve allows this for a minute, but then he nudges Bucky away, pulls up his trousers and fixes them. Drops to his own knees and pushes Bucky to the floor. He leans down, starts sucking his cock, and it’s so perfect that Bucky throws his head back, panting, lost. If anything has ever felt better than Steve’s mouth on him, he can’t remember it.

But then Steve slides a hand beneath his shirt, stroking and scratching at his stomach. Panic hits a half-second before the hurt, and Bucky sobs. That sound is too pained to pass for anything else, too loud to miss, but he tries to choke it back anyway.

Steve stops immediately, looking up at him with wide eyes. Bucky scrambles backward, tugs his shirt down, and prays that he was quick enough to prevent Steve from seeing.

He wasn’t, apparently, because now a startled, stricken expression settles across Steve’s face.

“What the hell?” he asks. “How’d you get hurt like that?”

Bucky yanks his pants up and fastens them with trembling hands, covering himself. Because he can’t be exposed like this, not right now, not with Steve staring at him, so blatantly horrified. His lust is extinguished anyway, cock flagging so fast that it’s humiliating.

“It’s nothing,” he says, but Bucky’s too sick with fear to keep his voice steady, to make the lie remotely believable.

He’s shaking so badly that he can’t get his belt buckled, and he gives up, beats his fist against the hardwood floor and cusses, eyes burning.

“Hey, it’s all right,” Steve says, and he reaches out. Cups his cheek and looks at him with such warmth and kindness that he can’t stand it. “You’re safe. You’re safe with me, okay?”

Bucky hides his face against Steve’s hand, embarrassed that he’s being talked to like a child, and even more ashamed because he finds it so comforting.

“Lay down,” Steve whispers, and Bucky obliges, because he knows it’s already too late to salvage this situation.

Steve curls up beside him, kisses his temple, his cheek. Such tender touches, so gentle they ache. They stay this way until Bucky’s racing heart has calmed and he’s stopped quivering.

“Can I look?” Steve asks quietly, like he’s afraid of spooking him. “I just want to make sure you don’t need to go to a doctor.”

Bucky keeps his eyes wide open, willing tears not to fall, because if he cries right now in front of Steve he’ll never get over it. “Whatever,” he says.

“I won’t if you’re not okay with it,” Steve says. “But I’m really worried, Buck, because what I saw didn’t look good.”

“It’s fine.” Bucky unbuttons his shirt, and by some miracle he manages to keep his voice even, almost bored. “You’ll just assume the worst if I don’t let you see. Fucking fussbudget.”

When he opens his shirt, Bucky feels far more naked than he did with his cock in Steve’s mouth. Purple stripes cover his belly, tinged with blotchy blue around the edges. They’re tender to touch, and he feels a sharp twinge along his ribs every time he takes a deep breath.

Steve looks away, but to his credit, he doesn’t make much of an expression.

“It’s ugly, I know,” Bucky says, and he hopes he sounds matter-of-fact instead of self-conscious.

He can’t even lie, can’t laugh it off and say, “You should see the other guy,” because grown men don’t take a dozen licks to the belly with a belt when they get into brawls.

“These are pretty bad, but you probably don’t need to go to the hospital.” Steve closes Bucky’s shirt, buttons it up quickly. Like he can’t cover him fast enough.

“No shit,” Bucky says. He swats Steve’s hands away, sits up, and fixes his shirt himself. “Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Rogers.”

Steve sighs. “My ma might be able to help if―”

“Don’t you even finish that goddamn sentence,” Bucky says. “We’re not bringing your mother into this too.”

They sit in silence for a long while, and Bucky waits for the question that’s inevitably coming.

Sure enough, Steve finally asks, “It’s your father, right?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but he figures that silence is its own answer.

Steve hugs him, and he’s so hesitant, so painstakingly careful, that Bucky hates it.

“I’m not made of glass.” Bucky means to pull away, but instead he hauls Steve onto his lap. Grabs those artist’s hands of his and puts them on his chest, runs them down his stomach, making Steve feel him. It stings, but not enough to matter. “You can touch me, you idiot. I’m not gonna break.”

Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck and buries his face against his shoulder. “I wish you’d told me,” he says.

Bucky nuzzles Steve’s hair, breathes in his scent. “It’s not because I don’t trust you―”

“Shut up. I know that.” Steve’s voice has grown harder, angry, when he says, “I just hate that you’ve been going through this all alone.”

He shakes his head and kisses Steve’s temple. Holds him so tightly that it feels like nothing could ever tear them apart.

“I haven’t been alone,” Bucky whispers. “Not since the day I met you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that this story is not going to be a smut fest from here on out, even though this chapter earns that E rating again. That said, sex and sexuality are a big part of Bucky's journey, so do expect more of it down the road. 
> 
> Gotta give credit to deeppoeticgirl and ReyloTrashCompactor for their help through multiple drafts of this chapter. Thanks for being the best betas I could ask for!


	10. BUCKY: 1.10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of Act 1! Looking back on the thoughtful comments people have left on this fic was really inspiring, and it's a large part of why I managed to finish this chapter. Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback. :)
> 
> Also please note that I added the tags "BDSM" and "bad BDSM etiquette" which this chapter earns.

## 1.10

#### "Everything has changed and yet, I am more me than I have ever been."

#### - Iain Thomas -

∞

#####  **March to June 1935**

 

 

Bucky keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. Things are going well, and he knows that nothing good lasts forever.

Steve hasn’t chickened out of this thing they’re doing together. It’s hard to find time to mess around, but when they do, he’s eager, passionate, as stubborn in bed as he is out of it, but different too. Willing to follow instead of lead, and he gets off fastest when Bucky throws him around. Steve’s ashamed of that, but enough pleasure is helping him get over whatever prideful dilemma he’s dealing with.

By some miracle Bucky convinces him to keep his trap closed about what he saw on New Year’s. Steve would never betray him by gossiping about it, but he was half ready to confront Bucky’s father and call him a coward before his good sense kicked in.

He’ll be going to Harvard in five months, and Steve is coming with him. They’ll be alone and free, and best of all, together.

So things are good, too good, and Bucky just waits for bad news to come.

Then it does.

Sarah develops a cough in March, and even before she's diagnosed, they all know what it is. She started working in the TB sanitorium in January, and despite her best precautions, she was struck with it. By April Sarah has her own bed at the hospital, and Steve is alone in their Red Hook apartment, out of school and looking for work.

“She won't even let me come see her,” Steve says. “Just writes me letters, trying to sound fine when she’s got to be miserable. What if they aren’t treating her right? Ma was always complaining that some of the other nurses are so overworked that they snap at patients. And that the doctors are arrogant bastards who want to play God. I’ve got to bring her home.”

“Now you’re just talking stupid,” Bucky said. “You don’t know a damn thing about taking care of someone with TB.”

And if Steve caught it they might as well call for a priest.

Steve gives him a look that sees straight through him, and Bucky ducks his head.

It’s warm for April, and humid enough that he can feel a sweat breaking out on his forehead and the nape of his neck. He leans against the railing and looks down at the ground. It’s not a far enough drop to kill him, probably, unless he dives head first onto the concrete. God, that would look ridiculous.

Steve takes a seat on the grated floor of the fire escape and says, “I need to tell you something.”

Bucky closes his eyes, wishing for a breeze to break the out-of-season heat. “Yeah?”

“I can’t come to Massachusetts with you,” Steve says. “I’ve got to stay here. Keep as close to Ma as I can, and take care of her when she finally comes home.”

Bucky looks down at Steve, so small from this point of view. “Yeah, I know.”

He’s understanding, because he has to be, because what kind of friend would give their best pal grief over a thing like this? But he’s angry. Not at Steve or God or the world that seems to fuck him over at every given opportunity. Just angry in a way that has no direction and nowhere to go. 

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Spencer is the first to notice Bucky’s lack of motivation. She pulls him aside after class and asks if anything is wrong.

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She frowns, her full mouth drawn thin. “And I can expect your best work when you turn in your essay tomorrow?”

“I’ll do the very best I can, Mrs. Spencer.”

That night, when he’s supposed to do his homework, Bucky reads the new _Buck Rogers_ comic instead. He doesn’t like “The Rescue of King Innaldo” as much as “Rebuilding the World” or “Planetoid Plot,” but it’s a decent distraction.

He sometimes has the stray thought that if he and Steve ever got married, his new name would be Buck Rogers too. But that’s stupid. Men can’t marry each other; the Bible and the law both say so, and hell, even if it _was_ legal, Steve would never marry him. Someday he’ll pop the question to a smart, pretty dame and ask Bucky to be his best man.

Bucky doesn’t write one word of his essay, and the next day when Mrs. Spencer asks where his homework is, he says, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I forgot about it.”

He forgets his homework for French and Physics too.

Exams are right around the corner, and Bucky doesn’t study for any of them. It isn’t like he needs to anyway, but his knowledge of the material is hardly important, because he refuses to answer a single question on any of his tests. A, B, C, D, it doesn’t matter. The answer could _7_ or _the French Revolution_ or _none of the above_ , but he won’t need this shit ever again, so why bother?

Bucky hasn’t even fully walked through the door before his father starts in on him.

“Why did I get calls from all of your teachers, saying that you didn’t take your exams?”

Bucky shrugs. “They’re dirty liars if that’s what they said. I sat down and put my name on my papers. That’s taking them isn’t it, even if I didn’t answer anything?”

Dad looks ready to beat the shit out of him right now, but he only runs a hand through his hair and says, “Here’s what’s about to happen. You’re going to call your teachers and use every bit of charm you have to convince them to give you another chance. Then you’re going to study all night so that you can retake your exams tomorrow. You understand me, James?”

He should be afraid, but he isn’t this time. He thought long and hard about what it would mean if he flunked his exams. No Harvard, no escape from Brooklyn. He’ll have to find some kind of job so he can move out of his parents’ house, and until then, he’ll be suffering his father’s wrath.

“No,” he says. “I’m not doing it.”

Dad points to the stairs with a shaking finger. “Go to your room. I can’t stand the sight of you right now.”

Bucky hurries away before his father can change his mind about a beating. He’ll probably get it later, when he’s found the sense to be scared again. He climbs into bed, lies on his side, and picks at his ragged cuticles. He’d say fuck it to his father’s orders and leave the house if Steve was around, but he isn’t. He got himself a job at the grocery store near his apartment, and old Mr. McPherson is kind enough to let him work however many hours he wants—which is a lot of hours, as many as his body can handle, because he has an apartment to pay for now.

They could be roommates here in Brooklyn instead of Cambridge. Steve could use the help and Bucky could too. His dad won’t have any interest in supporting him now that he isn’t going to college.

Steve comes by the next morning, and it’s obvious that someone downstairs told him about Bucky sabotaging his exams, because he’s red-faced and frowning. He closes the door behind him and grabs Bucky by the front of his shirt. Steve doesn’t have the strength to shake him, but he tries.

“What the hell are you doing? You’re on the way to _Harvard_ , you jerk. Do you have any idea how many people would kill for that?”

Bucky wraps his hands around Steve’s delicate wrists, holding on tenderly. “C’mon, don’t lecture me. I’ll be getting enough of that from my ma, once the shock wears off.”

Steve looks up at him, his grip loosening. “Is this because of me? Because I said I couldn’t come with you?”

“No,” Bucky lies. “This is not your fault, Steve. I just… I only applied to please my dad, and the closer I got to it the less I wanted to leave. This is home, you know?”

Something gentles in Steve’s gaze, and then he lets go of Bucky’s shirt. “Yeah, I do, but I always thought you wanted to get out of Brooklyn.”

_Only if you were coming with me._

Bucky shakes his head. “Nah, punk. I belong right here.”

That’s true enough, and he may as well start accepting it.

Dad makes him call Harvard the next day to officially withdraw and apologize. It makes Bucky feel sick to say _yes, sir, I’m certain_ and _I sure am sorry for wasting your time_ , but he does it. Once it’s over he feels lighter, unburdened by the prospect of four years away from Steve.

Dad watches him, far too shrewd for comfort. “You’ll be moving in with Steve then.”

It isn’t quite a question.

“We haven’t talked about it,” Bucky says, “but maybe.”

His father hums, a low, quiet sound.

It feels like there are ants crawling over his skin, skittering down his spine. There’s something Dad knows but is not saying, and Bucky hopes to God it isn’t the truth about him and Steve.

His father keeps looking at him, so coldly that it makes him shiver.

“Be careful,” Dad says, whisper soft. “Steve Rogers is a good boy, but he makes fights wherever he goes. And you don’t need any more of that, now do you, James?”

Bucky nods, feeling numb and stupid. “No, sir. I don’t.”

 

* * *

 

Graduation day dawns bright and golden, not that it matters to Bucky. He passed his classes by the skin of his teeth, but he won’t be bothering to get his diploma. He was in the running for valedictorian before he left his exams blank. Sally got the top spot, from what he’s heard, which makes him smile. If he couldn’t win, he’s glad that Sally did.

Bucky spends all morning in bed, then takes the train to Red Hook.

He hears the trouble before he sees it: the dull sound of a fist connecting with flesh, a wheezing grunt, the metallic clang of a body being thrown against garbage cans. He knows what he’s going to find before he rounds the corner into the alleyway, and sure enough, there’s his best friend, all ninety pounds of him sprawled across the cobblestones amid yesterday’s trash. His lip is split and bloodied, but his eyes are defiant, undefeated and unafraid.

At least this time there’s only one bully, but the guy has half a foot and fifty pounds on Steve, and Bucky is in no mood to pull his punches. He grabs the bastard by the shoulder and coldclocks him. He falls to the ground, unconscious, and Bucky steps over him, grasps Steve by the collar of his threadbare shirt, and hauls him up to his feet. He tries to wrench himself out of Bucky’s grip, but that’s not happening, not today.

“You’re a crazy sonofabitch, you know that?” He shakes him, not hard enough to hurt, but with just enough force to remind Steve of how little control he has in the hands of a man his size. It’s mean, and a pointless exercise anyway, because if half a hundred back alley brawls haven’t imparted this lesson yet, nothing will.

Still, Bucky pulls him down the two blocks to his building. “Every time I turn my back, you go looking for trouble! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t look for it,” Steve says, and it only makes Bucky angrier, how calm he manages to sound.

He finally lets go of him when they reach the apartment but as soon as they’re behind closed doors, he says, “I’m starting to think you like getting hit. Is that it? You’re just spoiling for someone to rough you up?”

Steve tries to push him, but Bucky catches his bony hands, shoves him against the wall, and holds his wrists over his head. He struggles, kicking and cussing up a storm, that skinny body of his writhing against Bucky, and God in heaven, it’s making him hard. There’s no way that’s going to go unnoticed, not with him pinning Steve to the wall like a butterfly under glass, and sure enough, his expression slips from angry to startled in no time. A pretty blush pinks up his cheeks and he freezes, gone completely still except for the labored rise and fall of his chest.

Bucky rocks against Steve, buries his face in that soft blonde hair, and breathes in the familiar scents of cheap shampoo and sweat.

“Buck. I’ve got to be at work soon…” Steve’s voice comes out quiet, hoarse, frailer than he’s ever heard it. The flush of breath that settles against Bucky’s throat is sweet, intoxicating, its warmth at odds with the worry clear in his words.

“We’ll be quick,” Bucky promises. He thrusts against Steve again, the friction already delicious, exactly what he needs and yet not nearly enough. He bends down and kisses Steve’s cheek, the line of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Those pretty lips (split, bloodied, perfectly pink) part, and he kisses him there too, soft and gentle.

Bucky releases his wrists, but it’s a kindness granted out of selfishness, not compassion. He untucks Steve’s shirt and reaches underneath it to explore the sharp-ribbed expanse of his chest and stomach. Beneath his palm, Steve’s heart beats too fast—and then he leans into the kiss. He’s so tentative about it, so nervous in expressing his need, and something about that sends a spike of possessiveness through Bucky.

He nips the stark line of Steve’s collarbone, unbuckles his belt, reaches into his shorts, and takes his hard cock in hand. They may not have done this much, but Bucky paid close attention each and every time they were together, so he knows exactly how Steve likes to be touched. He prefers being jerked off hard and fast, sucked deeply, kissed brutally. He might look fragile, but he’s not, and there’s nothing he enjoys more than carrying the marks of rough handling under his clothes.

Steve closes his eyes, rocks into Bucky’s hand as he throws back his head and moans (quietly enough, because Bucky has warned him about keeping that loud mouth closed). Sweat beads at the hollow of his throat, and his lower lip shines bright with fresh blood, the cut there opened anew from their kisses.

“You’re so perfect,” Bucky says, too overwhelmed by this truth to hold it in.

Steve gasps his name, and suddenly this isn’t enough. Bucky needs more, needs everything.

So he lets go of Steve’s cock, picks him up, and carries him to his bedroom. He sets him back on his feet, then manhandles him until he’s bent over the side of the bed, face pressed into the neatly made covers with his ass in the air. Bucky yanks at his pants and shorts, tugs them down his narrow hips and spindly legs, so that he’s bare and trembling.

Steve sounds breathless and anxious when he asks, “Bucky? What’re you doing?”

“Nothing if you don’t want me to, pal.”

He pushes up Steve’s shirt, revealing the pale span of his back. Being bent over like this just emphasizes its irregular curvature, but he doesn’t care. Bucky loves every crooked inch of Steve’s spine, every sharp point on his slender body.

“Yeah, but what are you waiting for me to say ‘yes’ to?” Steve asks impatiently.

Face down on the bed with his ass on display, Steve must know what he wants, but he’s going to make him say it anyway.

Bucky grabs his hip and squeezes hard enough to draw a whimper from him. “I want to fuck you.”

Steve shivers under his hands, but he says, “All right.”

Bucky sucks his first two fingers and touches him, works open the taut hole between his legs, and pushes inside. He’s so tight, a hot little vise, and his whole body goes so still that Bucky worries this isn’t any good for him.

“You okay?”

Steve nods, but he says, “It hurts,” in such a small voice that Bucky freezes immediately.

“Good hurt or bad hurt?” he asks.

“Good? Both? I don’t know,” Steve says, and he turns his face into the covers, so that Bucky can’t see his pink-cheeked profile.

“Do you want me to quit?” he asks.

“No! I can handle it,” Steve says, and if he’s saying this just to prove how tough he is, Bucky might really lose his temper.

He thrusts his fingers again, not roughly by any means, but with more force than before. Steve cries out, shudders, and shies away, breaking their connection.

Bucky has some idea of what the problem might be. Long before he had sex himself, he knew enough from locker room talk that you shouldn’t fuck a girl who wasn’t wet. He figures that similar rules apply to boys, but he doesn’t have the first idea about how to make Steve ready. This isn’t the kind of thing football players discuss after practice. It isn’t the kind of thing anyone talks about _ever_ , and suddenly he’s angry. Angry that he’s eighteen years old, with a dozen unsatisfactory sexual encounters with girls under his belt, but still clueless about how to properly fuck a boy.

“You’re not wet,” Bucky says. “That’s probably why it hurts. You got anything I could use to get you slick with?”

“Like what?” Steve asks, and he sounds so genuinely confused that Bucky nearly laughs.

“Oil might work. Or vaseline.”

Bucky watches Steve’s blush travel from the nape of his neck down to the small of his back.

“Check the medicine cabinet in the bathroom,” he mutters.

“I’ll be right back.” Bucky smacks Steve’s ass hard enough to leave a pink handprint. He jumps and cusses, his foul language following Bucky out of the room.

He finds the vaseline, then hurries back to the bedroom with the glass jar.

Steve is huddled under the blankets, his clothes discarded on the floor, looking shyly at Bucky over the top of the covers. “I felt stupid,” he says quickly. “Bent over the bed like that all by myself.”

Bucky tugs the blankets away, and he has to hold back a stupid smile. They’ve touched nearly all of each other that matters at this point, but this is the first time he’s ever seen Steve completely bare. No pants caught around his ankles, no open shirt hanging from his bony shoulders. Just Steve, naked as the day he was born. Beautiful.

Bucky gets into bed, climbs on top of him, and laves his tongue across his split lip. Savors the metallic taste, the way Steve moans into his mouth. They kiss sloppily, wet and rough, grabbing at and grinding against each other, until Bucky’s so hard he can barely stand it.

He breaks away, breathing unevenly and shaking. Steve unbuttons his shirt, then frowns when he sees the blue marks that stain his chest and stomach, hands suddenly hesitant where they were earnest and reaching just a moment before. Steve looks at his bruised body with the sort of sympathy that borders on pity, and it makes Bucky so furious he could scream.

He unbuckles his belt, pulls it free from the loops on his trousers, and brandishes it. “If you say one fucking word, I swear to God I’ll gag you with this.”

Steve turns bright red and his lips part, like he’s eager for exactly what Bucky just threatened, so hungry to taste the leather that he can’t even keep his mouth closed.

“Do you think—would you like that?”

Bucky nearly chokes on the question because he’s so embarrassed to ask it.

Steve nods vigorously and mumbles, “Yeah. I would.”

“Are you—shit, Steve, are you sure?” Bucky can’t imagine what would be fun about being gagged, even if picturing Steve that way is turning him on so much he can hardly speak for it.

Steve smiles, looking shy and cocky at once. “I’m sure. Besides, aren’t you always going on about how I need to be quieter? This way we haven’t got to worry about nosy neighbors calling the police on us.”

Bucky maneuvers Steve onto his stomach, works the belt between his teeth, and buckles it against the back of his neck. He has to press a fresh hole into the leather to make it work, but the integrity of his belt is the least of Bucky’s concerns.

He catches Steve by his pointed chin, then turns his face to the side so that he can admire the way his full lips are stretched around the unforgiving leather. Bucky kisses his cheek, a quick peck that’s more imperious than affectionate.

“Aren’t you pretty like this?” he says.

Steve grunts, obviously annoyed, but his smart mouth is gagged, and he’s unable to talk back.

Bucky grins. He thinks he’s going to like this very much.

He grabs the jar of vaseline, coats his fingers, presses them between Steve’s legs again, and this time he slides inside with much less resistance. He’s still tight and warm, but it doesn’t feel like his body is trying to reject Bucky’s touch. Steve clutches at the sheets and moans, the noise muffled around the belt. He sounds more pleased than pained, but suddenly Bucky’s afraid that this is a mistake. What if Steve needs him to stop and can’t say so?

“If you want me to ungag you, or quit touching you, or if anything else is wrong, just knock on the wall,” Bucky says. “Okay?”

Steve nods, then rocks back onto Bucky’s fingers. He can’t move much, not flat on his stomach like this, but he’s sure trying.

Bucky kisses the curve of Steve’s throat, the crest of his shoulder blade. Bites his earlobe and whispers, “You’re so fucking beautiful. I know you hate it when I say that, but you can’t tell me to shut up right now, so I guess you’ll just have to listen.”

He keeps thrusting into Steve, working him until he thrashes and whines and finally starts to loosen up a little. Bucky experiments until he finds the pattern of touches that Steve responds to best, a predictably harsh, quick rhythm. When he curls his fingers, Steve lets out a high-pitched cry, too loud for the gag to completely muzzle him. He almost draws away, afraid he’s gone too far, but then Steve is panting and quivering, fucking himself on his fingers with unrepentant eagerness.

That sight—bashful Steve Rogers doing something this shamelessly obscene—breaks him. Bucky pulls his fingers away, rushes to get his trousers down, and slicks his cock with vaseline. He settles against Steve’s back, lining up their bodies. Presses his face into his mussed hair and breathes in the scents of sex and sweat. He guides his cock between Steve’s legs, pushing until he’s enveloped in tight, boyish heat.

“Oh my God,” Bucky whimpers, because this feels so good he could cry.

It’s different from being with a woman. He’s had fast girls (who wanted to fuck but didn’t care to risk pregnancy) this way before, too, and it doesn’t even compare. This is better, so much better, and Bucky can’t escape what that means, no matter how much he’d like to.

He fucks Steve harder to keep from thinking about it, buries himself in the body beneath him. They’re both breathing heavily, dirtied by each other’s sweat, tangled up together. Steve’s a quaking mess, and he makes soft, choked noises every time Bucky thrusts. Sweet sounds, so beautiful that Bucky could live for a thousand years and never forget them.

He gets close to coming once, then again, but he manages to hold back. Bucky wants this to last, to chase the pleasure for as long as possible, to feel this way forever.

Steve knocks on the wall, three quick taps against the fake wood panels, just loud enough to break through the veil of Bucky’s lust. He stops, pulls out of Steve, and sits up on his knees. Scrambles to unbuckle the belt, jabbering questions all the while: “Stevie, are you okay? Did I hurt you? Was it too much? Are you—?”

Once he’s free of the gag, Steve rolls onto his back, grabs Bucky by the hair, and drags him down for a kiss. He tastes like copper and saltwater, like blood and tears—

Bucky rears back, breaking the kiss. Steve’s face is wet, his eyes bloodshot and swollen. He’s been crying for a while, might have been crying the entire time Bucky fucked him, but Steve was too stubborn to tell him to stop until just now.

“You bullheaded bastard.” Bucky cups his cheeks, presses a dozen darting kisses to his tear-streaked skin. “You stubborn little shit. How could you let me do that to you if it hurt?”

“It didn’t, not really,” Steve mutters, but he won’t meet Bucky’s eyes when he says it.

“Don’t you lie to me. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Bucky bites Steve’s split lip, drawing fresh blood, and he knows how messed up this is, punishing Steve for lying about pain by inflicting more of it.

He sobs against Bucky’s mouth and kisses back just as brutally. When he tries to break away, Steve wraps his legs around his waist, grabs the front of his open shirt and yanks him down.

“It hurt, okay?” he whispers. “But it was a good hurt. I liked it.”

Bucky frowns, because he knows Steve’s lying voice, and this isn’t it. He’s telling the truth, even if that truth doesn’t make sense. “Then why’d you knock on the wall?”

Steve glances away and says, “I thought you were getting close, and I—I just wanted to face you, okay?”

Bucky nuzzles into Steve’s neck and asks, “So you could watch me come?”

“No,” Steve says. Then, “Maybe.”

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill me?”

“Hurry up,” Steve says, and now he’s scratching at Bucky’s back, blunt nails digging into the meat of his shoulders. “I want you in me again. C’mon, I know you liked it too.”

Bucky’s so hard he hurts, still slick with vaseline, and he’s too far gone to care about whether or not this is the right decision. He fucks Steve, steals kisses between moans, thrusting into him as slowly and gently as he can manage.

“More,” Steve says. He grabs at Bucky’s hair, his shirt, and rocks against him, meeting every movement. Impatient, eager, needy. He trembles all over, his cock caught between them, stiff and leaking, begging for attention.

Bucky thrusts harder and grasps Steve’s cock. Strokes him as roughly as he fucks him, and it doesn’t even take a minute of this before Steve is spilling in his hand. Coming and crying, trying to smother wordless sobs against his mouth in a sloppy kiss.

Bucky lets himself go, allows the pleasure to sweep through his body, and comes still deep inside of Steve. It’s so impossibly good, the best he’s ever had (even though every time with Steve always feels like the best) and he has to grit his teeth to keep from shouting.

He doesn’t move for a long while, can’t find the energy or inclination to separate from Steve. It’s fear that finally drives him to pull away. A sinking, unsettling sensation that fills his stomach, creeping up to remind Bucky that this was stupid and reckless.

Some small, frightened part of him hoped that he and Steve would never go this far. That they’d keep their indiscretions at least somewhat controlled, limited to the pleasure they could give each other with hands and mouths. Those things are wrong too, of course, but fucking somehow seems much worse.

Bucky gets up, walks to the bathroom, returns the vaseline to the medicine cabinet, and washes himself as quickly as he can without looking too closely at his own cock. Then he wets two small towels and goes back to Steve.

“I’m gonna clean you up.”

Steve doesn’t shy away when Bucky wipes at the semen on his stomach, but he says, “I can do that myself.”

Bucky ignores him, and once his belly is clean, he spreads Steve’s legs and looks at the mess he made of him. He’s open and raw, wrecked and wet with come. A lewd sight, if a pretty one, and Bucky hurries to wash away the evidence of what they’ve done.

After they’re both clean, he lies beside Steve on his too-small bed. Facing each other but not talking, until Bucky can’t take the silence any longer.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“Good,” Steve says.

Bucky makes himself smile. “Guess you’re not a virgin anymore. That’s a plus, right?”

Steve frowns, then says, “I don’t think this counts.”

“Oh really?” Bucky asks, and he somehow manages to keep his voice light, even though he’s pissed off something awful. “Why not?”

“It just doesn’t,” Steve says, like he isn’t very sure himself if queer fucking is real enough to matter in this regard.

“That’s convincing.”

“What does it matter?” Steve asks.

Bucky sits up, pulling at his hair. “Because you’re talking like this doesn’t count! Like it didn’t even happen.”

Steve rolls onto his back and stares upward, pointedly not looking at him. “Of course it happened,” he whispers. “I can still feel it.”

Bucky climbs on top of Steve, arms braced on either side of him, and looks down at him, all milk-pale skin over fragile bones, eyes so beautiful that it’s impossible to remember how imperfectly they see. He reaches between Steve’s legs and touches, feels how he’s looser than before, open from the hard fucking he took.

“Might as well have popped a cherry,” he whispers.

Steve turns red, but he only says, “Stop trying to make me angry.”

“I’m not,” Bucky says. “Just setting the record straight. Your virginity is long gone, pal. I took that. Got it?”

Steve looks like he might like to knock him across the room. Then he smiles and says, “I feel like you should let me do you next time, just to be sure.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in. When it does, Bucky laughs, more out of anxiety than amusement. “What, you—you want to fuck _me_?”

Steve smiles like he expected this reaction exactly. “Why not? You seem so invested in getting rid of my virginity.”

Bucky sputters, trying to find the right words to explain why this isn’t even up for consideration. He might like messing around with a boy, but he isn’t a damn _fairy_. But he doesn’t know how to express that without offending Steve, not after what they just did.

He finally settles on saying, “That’s not happening.”

Steve kisses his throat, his jawline, the corner of his mouth, but not his lips. “That’s too bad,” he whispers. “Because it feels incredible.”

“Don’t you have to get to work soon?” Bucky asks

Steve sighs, then says, “I might’ve stretched the truth about that. I don’t have to be at the store for another few hours.”

“What?” Bucky asks, too thrown to be irritated. “Why’d you lie?”

“Because if you thought we didn’t have time, then you might leave me alone,” Steve says.

Bucky rocks against him. “Well, if we’ve got time to kill, then kiss me.”

He suspects that Steve might like to tell him to go to hell, but he does as he’s told. He’s good at that in bed, if nowhere else.

Afterward, Bucky asks, “So, since I have to move out anyway, and we were gonna be roommates in Cambridge, what do you say we live here together?”

Steve says nothing for so long that Bucky already knows the answer will be bad news.

“I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe it’s not such a good idea to live together. Just to keep things clear, you know? If we’re sleeping under the same roof, things could get… messy.”

Bucky props himself up on his elbow and looks down at Steve. “Messy how?”

“Like we might get wrong ideas about what we are,” Steve says, his voice so gentle for the terrible weight of his words. “We’re best friends, Buck. This—whatever this is—it’s second to that. Right?”

“Right,” Bucky says, but all he can think is, _I should have gone to fucking Harvard._

  

* * *

 

Bucky moves out in June, after he finds a job at the docks. He doesn’t have much to take with him, since his father isn’t letting him have any of the furniture. Dad does graciously give him a ride to his new place, even helps carry his meager cardboard boxes of personal effects to the one-room apartment. He doesn’t have a proper bed, but Steve gave him a few blankets and pillows so that he wouldn’t have to sleep on the bare floor.

Dad frowns at the empty apartment, then takes out his wallet and hands over a twenty-dollar bill.

“Here,” he says. “Get yourself some damn furniture.”

Bucky feels almost like crying, but he takes the twenty and says, “Thank you.”

Dad puts his hands in pockets. “A piece of advice: go by your given name.”

“What?” Bucky asks.

His father sighs. “Go by James. Bucky is a child’s name, and it’s time for you to put away childish things. You understand?”

Bucky stares at the picture of the White House on the back of the twenty. Only important people go there, and maybe if he’d gone to college he could’ve become someone important. Instead he lost any chance to better himself, to get away from this goddamn city. Threw it away for a boy who isn’t even in love with him.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think I do.”


End file.
